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V      -RANT    SMITH 
14.O  Pacific  Av«». 
LONG   BEACH 


A  WIND  FLOWER 


Hutbor'0  Ulotc 


"A  Wind  Flower1'  was  written  in  the  win- 
ter of  1897,  before  the  outbreak  of  the  present 
ritualistic  controversy  in  the  Church  of  Eng- 
land. 


Q.  & 

^V        ^Zst^tsL* 
<&O  faU  LblAsV-uJ 

$aj£i 
/ 


:  At  a  short  distance  stood  Eunice  Herendean.'' 

Page  VI. 


H  Wfnb  flower 


H  Hovel 


BY 

CAROLINE  ATWATER   MASON 

AUTHOR   OF 

"The  Quiet  King"  "c/f  Minister  of  the  World"  etc. 


Hrevis  est  usus 


PHILADELPHIA 

a.  3.  TCowlanO 

1420  Chestnut  Street 


Copyright  1899  by  the 
AMERICAN  BAPTIST  PUBLICATION  SOCIETY 


from  the  Society's  own  (trees 


foreword 

FROM  the  remote  time  when  nymphs  figured 
in  society,  down  to  the  present  day,  the  white 
anemone,  or  windflower, — that  "tremulous 
woodland  thing," — has  had  some  slight  part 
to  play  in  legend  and  poetry;  and  whether 
appearing  as  nymph  or  flower,  it  has  always 
been  invested  with  a  contradictory  charm  no 
less  than  with  a  pathetic  grace. 

Various  are  the  legends  of  the  nymph,  vari- 
ous the  qualities  attributed  to  the  flower  ;  but 
whether  for  love  or  death,  it  has  ever  some 
subtle  relation  to  the  wind,  whether  seeking  it 
or  shunning  it  ;  blossoming  only  under  its  in- 
fluence, or  perishing  under  its  bitter  breath. 

Botanically,  we  know  the  anemone  nemorosa 
for  one  of  the  earliest  and  most  fragile  of  wild 
flowers,  growing  in  the  woods  in  exposed  spots 
and  also  in  sheltered  nooks,  "having  a  simple 
stem  with  involucre  remote  from  the  blossom, 
and  bearing  a  single  delicate  white,  or  out- 
wardly pinkish,  vernal  flower."  The  flower 
is  starlike,  and  airily  poised  on  the  slender 
stem,  "trembles  to  the  faintest  breeze."  It 
v 

2061930 


Joreworfc 

is,  perhaps,  a  surprise  to  find  that  the  juice  of 
this  innocent  looking  little  plant  is  acrid  and 
poisonous.  The  Romans,  indeed,  believed  it 
necessary  to  propitiate  the  first  anemone  with 
spells,  to  ward  off  its  baleful  influence  ;  and  in 
some  parts  of  Eastern  Europe  the  common 
people  still  believe  that  the  wind  blowing  over 
the  blossoms  becomes  noxious. 

In  mythology,  Anemone  is  a  nymph,  beloved 
by  Zephyr.  She  is  banished  by  Flora  from  her 
court  and  transformed  into  a  cold  spring  flower 
which  blooms  even  before  the  return  of  spring. 
Her  beauty  attracts  the  turbulent  Boreas,  who 
woos  her  stormily  after  his  fashion.  She  resists 
him  for  a  time,  then  yields  and  is  inclined  to 
listen.  Her  petals  open,  whereupon  he  blows 
upon  her  with  a  chilling  blast,  causing  the  ten- 
der flower  to  fade  away,  and  she,  "even  in 
blooming,  dies."  Thus  Ovid  sings  : 

Still  here  the  fate  of  lovely  forms  we  see, 
So  sudden  fades  the  sweet  Anemone. 

In  poetry  no  one  has  caught  and  rendered 
the  spirit  of  the  windflower  with  a  daintier 
grace  than  has  Elaine  Goodale  in  the  follow- 
ing verses  : 

Whence  art  thou,  frailest  flower  of  spring  ? 

Did  winds  of  heaven  give  thee  birth  ? 
Too  free,  too  airy-light  a  thing 

For  any  child  of  earth, 
vi 


^foreword 

O  palest  of  pale  blossoms  borne 

On  timid  April's  virgin  breast, 
Hast  thou  no  flush  of  passion  worn, 

No  mortal  bond  confessed  ? 

Thou  didst  not  spring  from  common  ground, 
So  tremulous  on  thy  slender  stem ; 

Thy  sisters  may  not  clasp  thee  round, 
Who  art  not  one  with  them. 

Thy  subtle  charm  is  strangely  given  ; 

My  fancy  will  not  let  thee  be, 
Then  poise  not  thus  'twixt  earth  and  heaven, 

O  white  anemone. 


VI  i 


a  Mint)  flower 


i 


|T  was  the  half-hour  before  dinner  at 
Whippany  Inn,  in  a  remote  New 
Hampshire  intervale.  Two  young 
ladies  were  descending  the  broad,  shallow  steps 
of  the  old  oak  staircase  into  the  low-ceiled 
hall.  Although  low,  this  hall  was  wide  and 
lined  with  polished  tables  and  cabinets,  rich  in 
quaint  and  curious  china.  Midway  the  length 
of  it  was  the  great  tiled  chimney,  where  a  fire 
of  birch  logs  blazed  hospitably,  flanked  by  big 
blue  jars  of  goldenrod.  From  the  hall  opened 
various  rooms  of  moderate  size,  furnished  with 
a  certain  homely  comfortableness.  Nothing 
was  new  or  obtrusively  handsome  ;  the  first  im- 
pression made  upon  one  coming  into  the  house, 
was  that  everything  had  always  been  as  it  was 
then,  and,  on  the  whole,  he  was  apt  to  wish 
it  always  would  be.  No  person  was  in  sight, 
and  no  sound  of  voices  could  be  heard.  Out- 
side a  chill  mist  was  rising,  blurring  the  great 
outline  of  the  mountain  ranges, 
i 


B  mtno  flower 

' '  Dear  !  but  what  a  still  place, ' '  commented 
the  taller  of  the  two  young  ladies,  as  she 
reached  the  floor  and  advanced  with  a  rustle 
of  crisp  silk  to  the  office,  a  small  room  at  the 
left  of  the  house  door. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do?"  asked  the 
other  languidly,  as  she  followed. 

"Why,  we  haven't  registered  yet,  Grace.  I 
want  to  see  if  there  is  any  one  we  ever  heard 
of  in  this  singular  seclusion. ' ' 

Accordingly,  the  speaker  entered  the  office 

which,  like  the  hall,  was  empty,  paused  at  the 

jdesk,  and  drew  to  a  convenient  point  of  sight 

the   heavy,   leather-bound  register  which   lay 

open  upon  it. 

Before  investigating  the  signatures  con- 
tained in  the  book,  the  young  lady  took  the 
pen  which  lay  in  readiness  and  wrote  in  a  pro- 
nounced, high-shouldered  English  hand  :  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Horatio  Barringer,  Coalport,  Pa.  ; 
the  Misses  Barringer ;  Miss  Gladys  Barringer 
and  nurse. 

During  the  process  of  writing  the  family 
names,  Miss  Barringer' s  sister,  looking  over 
her  shoulder,  had  been  closely  scanning  the 
open  pages.  They  were  handsome  girls,  with 
good  color,  clear,  bright  eyes,  and  a  generally 
well-bred  and  well-groomed  effect.  Both  were 
tall,  with  long,  slender  waists  and  the  broad 


S  "ttHtnO  flower 

shoulders  and  hips  which  combine  to  produce 
an  hour-glass  outline  in  American  women  of 
the  conventional  type. 

They  were  dressed  correctly  in  fashionable 
tailor  gowns,  rough  and  dark,  and  becoming  to 
the  tints  of  their  fine  skin  and  brown  hair. 
Miss  Barringer  had  a  stately  bearing  and  a 
peculiarly  fine  pose  of  the  head  ;  her  sister  was 
slighter ;  she  wore  an  eyeglass,  and  carried 
herself  a  shade  less  confidently. 

Just  as  Miss  Barringer' s  pen  had  reached  the 
last  aristocratic  stroke  which  recorded  the 
arrival  of  the  Barringer  family,  her  sister,  *•' 
Grace,  pointed  lightly  with  her  forefinger  to  a 
name  near  the  foot  of  the  opposite  page  :  Rev. 
Francis  Norman.  The  color  in  Miss  Barrin- 
ger's  cheek  was  heightened  a  shade,  as  she  re- 
marked carelessly : 

' '  Why,  yes  ;  I  supposed  he  would  be  here 
by  this  time.  I  wonder  if  any  other  Coalport 
people  have  come  ? ' ' 

"Yes,"  said  her  sister,  after  an  instant's 
pause,  "there  is  Miss  Archibald  !  Isn't  that 
comic?  "  and  they  both  laughed  softly. 

"One  can  almost  foresee  certain  things," 
murmured  Grace  Barringer. 

"Such  as  Tom  Ripley,  you  mean,"  said  her 
sister  ;  ' '  but  he  won' t  be  here  till  to-morrow. ' ' 

"Oh,    Tom,    of  course,"    Grace   rejoined. 
3 


B  TKflinD  jflower 

"Turn  the  leaf,    Flo.      There's  nobody  else 
there." 

"Sister  Bertha  and  Sister  Elizabeth  are 
here,"  was  the  next  announcement  made  by 
Miss  Barringer,  "and,  yes  Grace,  there  are 
some  other  Coalport  people.  Who  can  they 
be?  Isn't  it  simply  archaic ? — Moses  Heren- 
dean  !  And  in  that  handwriting!"  These 
exclamations  were  made  by  Miss  Barringer  dis- 
creetly under  her  breath. 

"Does  archaic  mean  coming  out  of  the 
ark  ? ' '  asked  Grace  soberly,  bending  lower 
over  the  register. 

"Certainly,"  said  Miss  Barringer;  "and 
please  to  observe  that  there  is  a  Mary  Heren- 
dean,  Grace,  and  likewise  a  Eunice  Ann," 
and  here  she  stopped  speaking,  and  lifting  her 
chin  contemplatively,  passed  her  forefinger 
over  the  collective  Herendean  names. 

"Why  do  you  do  that,  my  dear?"  asked 
Grace. 

"To  see  if  they  sprinkled  sand  on  them 
after  they  were  written.  That  queer,  quaint, 
stiff  writing  always  ought  to  have  sand  on  it, 
don't  you  know?  It  did  when  I  was  in  the 
ark.  I  remember  it  perfectly." 

"Oh,  Florence,  how  ridiculous!"  said  her 
sister  with  a  laugh  ;   "but  truly,  did  you  ever 
hear  of  Herendeans  in  Coalport?" 
4 


a  "WflmO  jflower 

"  Never.  We  should  not  be  likely  to  know 
them,  Grace.  Fancy  writing  your  name  on  a 
hotel  register  '  Eunice  Ann ' !  I  can  always 
tell  what  people  are  like  from  their  handwrit- 
ing. I  can  see  her,  can' t  you  ? ' '  and  Miss 
Barringer  slipped  her  hand  through  her  sister's 
arm,  and  they  went  out  on  the  veranda.  "She 
is  thirty-five,  with  freckles  and  a  reddish  nose. 
Mary  must  be  older  still,  as  her  name  came 
first." 

"  But  why  should  they  write  their  names  in 
that  absurd  manner,  with  no  Mrs.  or  Miss?" 

"Grace,"  said  Miss  Barringer,  after  a  mo- 
ment's thought,  with  a  low,  little  scream,  "it 
is  we  who  are  stupid  !  Don't  you  see?  They 
are  Quakers,  of  course  ! ' ' 

At  that  moment,  as  they  reached  the  corner 
of  the  house,  they  were  met  suddenly  by  a 
girl  who  turned  in  some  confusion  to  avoid 
them,  and  glanced  back  at  their  stately,  rus- 
tling elegance  in  shy  and  evident  surprise. 

' '  Dowdy,  my  dear, ' '  commented  Miss  Bar- 
ringer, tightening  her  hold  on  the  arm  of 
Grace,  "  undeniably  dowdy,  but  all  the  same 
an  utter  beauty  if  she  did  but  know  it." 

The  girl  thus  described  wore  a  white  dress, 

limp  from  the  mist,  and  untrimmed,  save  for  a 

little  fine  old  needlework  at  the  throat.     She 

carried  a  writing  tablet,  and  a  soft  snuff-brown 

5 


B  MinO  Slower 

shawl  trailed  from  her  shoulder  down  the  skirt 
of  her  dress.  Her  dark  hair  was  damp  and 
disordered  by  the  wet  wind,  and  below  the 
confusion  of  it  shone  out  dark,  innocent  eyes 
with  long  lashes  and  a  soft  pathetic  glance. 
The  mouth  had  a  childish,  pouting  sweetness, 
with  dimples  about  the  corners  ;  the  face  was 
without  color,  but  firm  and  fine  in  hue,  not 
pallid. 

The  veranda,  like  the  hall,  was  deserted, 
save  for  two  people  in  a  sheltered  corner. 
These,  as  they  approached  them,  the  Misses 
Barringer  observed  to  be  probably  father  and 
daughter.  A  tall,  spare  old  man  with  a  keenly 
chiseled  profile,  and  gray  locks  below  a  black 
velvet  skull  cap,  sat  in  a  steamer  chair  closely 
enveloped  in  a  gray  rug.  A  crutch  lay  on  the 
floor  beside  his  chair.  The  long,  blue-veined 
fingers  held  some  sheets  of  manuscript  which 
he  lowered  as  the  new-comers  passed,  and 
turning  to  a  young  woman  who  sat  on  a  low 
seat  close  at  hand,  he  asked,  quite  audibly  : 
"  Did  thee  send  Eunice  to  put  on  warmer  gar- 
ments ? ' ' 

"Yes,  father,"  was  the  reply. 

Miss  Barringer  and  her  sister  passed  on. 

"Moses  and  Mary  without  doubt,"  said 
Miss  Barringer,  as  they  turned  the  next  cor- 
ner. 

6 


B  TJCUnD  Slower 

"Not  only  so,  my  dear,"  returned  Grace, 
' '  but  your  innocent  beauty  in  the  limp  gown 
was  palpably  Eunice  Ann  !  And  you  profess 
to  read  character  in  handwriting  ! ' ' 

"It's  pretty  bad,  I  know,"  Miss  Barringer 
admitted ;  ' '  but  Moses  wrote  all  the  names 
himself.  I  could  see  that  at  a  glance.  That 
girl  never  calls  herself  Eunice  Ann,  you  can 
depend." 


II 


fOSES  HERENDEAN,  who  was  at 
the  head  of  the  steadily  declining 
Friends'  Meeting  of  the  great  com- 
mercial city  of  Coalport,  was  an  old  habitue  of 
Whippany  Inn.  In  earlier  years  it  had  been 
a  favorite  gathering  place  for  Friends,  but  lat- 
terly this  old  circle  had  diminished,  and  this 
year  the  old  man  found  that  he  and  his  daugh- 
ters were  the  only ' '  members  of  society ' '  in  the 
house. 

It  was  a  small  and  quiet  house,  the  valley 
about  it  of  exquisite  charm,  the  mountain 
range  in  the  distance,  impressive.  Moses 
Herendean  liked  the  place.  The  rocks  and 
waterfalls  and  solemn  fir  forest  walks  were  all 
associated  with  his  strong  and  sunny  days. 
Hannah,  his  wife,  had  come  here  with  him  un- 
til her  death,  and  here  they  had  enjoyed  many 
"favored  seasons"  in  the  company  of  those 
like-minded  with  themselves. 

To  be  sure  there  had  been  changes.     Whip- 
pany  had    been    discovered    long    since    by 
•'world's   people,"     but    Moses    Herendean 
found  many  of  congenial   spirit  among  these. 
8 


flower 


and  gradually  he  came  to  look  with  indulgent 
kindliness  even  upon  the  decorous  games  and 
piano  music  which  became  the  dissipations  of 
the  evenings.  Through  all  the  changes  the 
old  man  had  continued  to  hold  a  certain  silent 
headship  in  the  house  ;  the  proprietor  regarded 
him  with  profound  reverence,  and  strangers 
coming  to  Whippany  fell  almost  unconsciously 
into  the  habit  of  paying  especial  respect  to  the 
patriarchal  dignity  of  the  venerable  Quaker. 
His  kindly  tolerance,  his  striking  garb,  and  the 
quaintness  of  his  speech  made  him  a  pictur- 
esque and  pleasing  figure  in  the  exclusive  little 
inn  ;  and  there  had  been  many  Who  would 
have  felt  Whippany  without  Moses  Herendean 
to  be  comparatively  characterless. 

It  was  early  in  August  when  the  Barringer 
family  arrived  ;  Moses  Herendean  and  his 
daughters  had  been  at  Whippany  for  a  month, 
but  they  had  had  the  house  almost  to  them- 
selves, as  the  season  had  been  cold  and  back- 
ward, and  dull  enough  the  younger  daughter, 
Eunice,  was  beginning  to  find  it.  Her  father 
was  preparing  to  publish  a  memoir  of  Isaac 
Foster,  an  ancestor  of  the  Herendean  family 
and  a  Friend  whom  Eunice  privately  consid- 
ered exceedingly  tiresome  in  this  generation, 
however  useful  he  might  have  been  in  his  own. 
Her  sister  Mary  copied  manuscript,  and  read 
9 


21  THUinD  flower 


marked  passages  to  her  father  from  morning 
till  night,  except  for  a  walk,  or  a  game  of  ten- 
nis once  a  day,  and  an  occasional  excursion 
to  South  Whippany  to  look  after  poor  folk 
there  who  were  special  wards  of  the  Herendean 
family.  Eunice  found  none  of  these  occupa- 
tions amusing.  She  was  only  twenty  and  had 
just  discovered  that  she  was  pretty — an  impor- 
tant epoch  in  a  girl's  life.  Furthermore,  she  had 
only  this  summer  finished  a  four  years'  course  in 
a  Philadelphia  Friends'  school  of  the  straitest 
order,  and  she  was  eager  for  something  new  and 
interesting.  With  the  arrival  of  the  Barringers 
and  a  set  of  people  who  came  at  about  the  same 
time,  a  new  order  of  things  began  at  the  Inn  ; 
the  world  ' '  came  up  as  a  flood, ' '  Moses  Heren- 
dean thought,  and  withdrew  to  more  secluded 
places,  elbowed  out  of  his  favorite  haunts  it 
seemed  to  Mary,  his  daughter,  by  these  new 
people,  to  whom  Eunice  however  was  far  from 
indifferent. 

It  was  the  second  day  of  the  Barringers'  so- 
journ at  the  Inn  and  a  morning  of  surpassing 
beauty,  with  shimmering  sunshine  in  the  green 
valley,  and  opal  mists  hanging  over  the 
shoulders  of  the  mountains.  On  the  veranda 
the  position  of  prominence  was  held  by  a  gay 
and  animated  company  of  ladies,  while  at  a 
little  distance  sat  a  group  of  gentlemen  be- 
10 


flower 


longing  to  their  party,  who  were  smoking  and 
playing  cards.  Two  Protestant  nuns  in  their 
distinctive  garb,  bearing  enormous  crosses  on 
their  breasts,  were  walking  up  and  down,  stop- 
ping occasionally  to  speak  to  the  ladies  in  the 
central  group. 

Moses  Herendean  had  come  to  the  open 
house  door,  and  stood  leaning  on  his  crutch 
which  he  used  to  support  an  injured  limb,  and 
looking  out  upon  the  con.pany  on  the  veranda. 
It  had  been  a  part  of  the  etiquette  of  the  house 
that  smoking  should  be  indulged  in  apart  from 
public  view,  and  Moses  Herendean  had  never 
seen  card  playing  in  the  morning  at  Whippany 
before,  nor  upon  the  open  veranda.  The 
whole  scene  smote  upon  his  sense  like  a  vulgar 
insult  to  the  immaculate  morning.  He  turned 
silently  back  into  the  dark  hall,  and  meeting 
his  daughter  Mary  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs,  he 
said  sadly  : 

"  Thy  mother  would  not  recognize  this  place 
to-day,  Mary.  It  looks  like  some  haunt  of  sin- 
ful pleasure,  or  a  resort  of  misguided  Papists, 
instead  of  the  place  of  peace  and  order  which 
it  used  to  be.  Let  us  go  out  through  the  pines 
where  we  can  be  alone." 

So  saying,  the  old  man  passed  out  by 
another  way,  and  Mary,  with  her  arm  full  of 
books,  turned  as  she  followed  him  to  catch,  if 


H  ICUnfc  jflowet 

possible,  a  sight  of  Eunice  whom  she  had  not 
seen  since  breakfast.     This  she  failed  to  do. 

The  center  of  the  group  of  ladies  on  the 
veranda  was  Mrs.  Barringer,  a  dignified  woman 
of  fine  manner  and  distinguished  bearing. 
Around  her  were  gathered  her  daughters,  a 
young  and  pretty  Boston  woman,  Mrs.  Mather, 
a  fresh  arrival,  and  a  little  maiden  lady  called 
Miss  Archibald,  with  gray  hair  rolled  back  into 
a  kind  of  crest  from  her  forehead,  giving  her 
a  singular  resemblance  to  a  paroquet ;  Miss 
Archibald  wore  at  her  waist  a  surprising  assort- 
ment of  small,  clinking,  silver-mounted  articles, 
among  them  a  smelling-bottle,  a  set  of  tablets, 
a  tiny  prayer  book,  and  a  lorgnette. 

Mrs.  Mather  was  occupied  closely  with  a 
large  piece  of  embroidery  on  gleaming  white 
satin,  which  had  been  ardently  admired  by  the 
little  group.  The  black-robed  sisters  had 
stopped  before  her,  and  were  leaning  over  ex- 
amining the  work  reverently. 

Against  the  rail,  at  a  short  distance,  stood 
Eunice  Herendean,  watching  with  great  won- 
dering eyes  the  sweet,  impassive  faces  of  Sister 
Bertha  and  Sister  Elizabeth  under  the  harsh 
outline  of  their  black  bonnets.  No  one  ap- 
peared to  be  aware  of  the  young  girl's  presence, 
or  to  perceive  the  startled  interest  with  which 
she  looked  on  and  listened. 
12 


Slower 

A  little  child  in  dainty  frills  of  fresh  dimity 
plunged  against  her  in  its  romping  up  and 
down  the  veranda,  looked  up,  and  seeming  to 
know  instinctively  that  this  was  not  the  right 
sort  of  person,  broke  sharply  away  from  the 
caressing  hand  she  had  extended.  Eunice 
watched  the  child  as  it  ran  away  with  a  peculiar 
flicker  of  her  eyelids.  It  was  Gladys  Barringer. 

The  sisters  had  passed  on.  With  a  sudden 
impulse  Eunice  pushed  her  hair  back  from  her 
forehead  where  it  was  continually  falling,  and 
stepping  nearer  Mrs.  Mather,  bent  over  her 
embroidery  and  asked  timidly,  with  a  strange 
beating  of  her  heart  at  her  own  daring  : 

"Excuse  me,  please.  Your  work  is  so 
beautiful.  Is  it  a  table  cover  ?  ' ' 

Miss  Archibald  raised  her  lorgnette  and 
glanced  across  curiously  at  Eunice  ;  .Miss  Bar- 
ringer  leaning  back  in  her  chair  looked  civilly 
amused.  Mrs.  Mather  lifted  her  pretty  head, 
and  met  the  girl's  eyes  with  reserve  in  her 
own,  not  unkindly,  but  distant. 

"No,  my  dear,"  she  said  with  clear-cut 
emphasis  ;  ' '  this  is  an  altar-cloth  which  I  am 
making  for  use  in  our  church  in  Boston.  I 
should  be  glad  to  unfold  it  again  if  you  care 
particularly  to  see  it,"  and  Mrs.  Mather  held 
up  the  work  in  a  half-reluctant  hand.  Eunice 
had  chosen  an  inopportune  moment. 
13 


flower 


"Oh,  no  indeed,  please  don't.  I  saw  it 
before,  you  know,"  she  murmured  confusedly  ; 
and  then,  standing  her  ground  with  courage, 
she  added  :  "  I  did  not  know  about  altar-cloths 
—  that  is,  I  supposed  they  were  only  used  in 
Catholic  churches.  '  ' 

It  was  plain  from  the  inflection  of  Eunice's 
voice  that  it  had  thus  far  never  occurred  to  her 
that  people  of  ordinary  intelligence  could  be 
"Catholics." 

Mrs.  Mather  did  not  reply  at  once,  but  as 
Eunice  did  not  retreat  she  remarked,  bending 
again  over  her  work  : 

"Ours  is  a  catholic  church,  but  probably 
not  in  the  sense  you  mean.  I  suppose  you 
are  thinking  of  Romanist  churches  ;  altar-cloths 
are  certainly  not  confined  to  them.  '  ' 

"Are  there  two  kinds  of  Catholics?"  fal- 
tered Eunice  in  increasing  bewilderment. 

"My  dear,"  returned  Mrs.  Mather  with  a 
certain  finality  in  her  tone,  "  I  think  we  shall 
have  to  turn  you  over  to  Father  Norman  for 
instruction  —  don't  you,  Mrs.  Barringer?"  and 
the  expression  of  mock  despair  which  she  con- 
trived to  direct  to  that  lady  put  poor  Eunice 
to  rout  effectively.  She  withdrew  to  the  sup- 
port of  the  veranda  rail  and  the  shield  of 
"  Waverley,"  while  the  others  pursued  the  con- 
versation. 


B  1DUn&  Jflower 

"You  have  never  seen  Father  Norman,  I 
think  you  said,  Mrs.  Mather?"  asked  Grace 
Barringer. 

"  No,  he  seems  to  shun  the  common  eye." 

"  I  believe  he  went  over  to  Torridge  yester- 
day, before  you  came,  to  make  arrangements 
for  holding  service  next  Sunday.  You  know 
there  is  a  lovely  little  church  over  there,  and 
they  are  without  a  rector  now."  It  was  Miss 
Archibald  who  tendered  this  information  with 
cheerful  alacrity. 

"You  will  admire  Father  Norman  very 
much,"  remarked  Mrs.  Barringer. 

"Ah,  indeed  you  will,"  murmured  Miss 
Archibald. 

"Mrs.  Mather,"  interposed  Grace  Bar- 
ringer mischievously,  "you  mustn't  quite  be- 
lieve everything  that  you  will  hear  Miss  Archi- 
bald say.  You  see  she  is  inclined  to  think 
that  Father  Norman  is  a  reincarnation  of  St. 
Francis.  It  is  a  little  singular  that  his  name 
should  be  Francis,  I  allow." 

Miss  Archibald's  bright,  beadlike  eyes 
glanced  in  good-humored  perplexity  from 
Grace  to  Mrs.  Mather,  who  was  laughing 
merrily. 

At  this  point  Mr.  Barringer,  a  stout,  pros- 
perous-looking man,  joined  the  ladies,  drawing 
a  chair  to  Mrs.  Mather's  side,  while  a  slender 
15 


B  TJClin&  flower 

youth,  with  a  fair  mustache,  attached  himself 
to  the  Barringer  girls. 

"  I  notice  the  conversation  has  come  around 
to  Father  Norman,"  remarked  Mr.  Barringer  ; 
' '  it  generally  does.  For  the  life  of  me  I  can' t 
understand  why  these  clergymen  have  such  a 
fascination  for  you  ladies.  Now  I  observe 
that  you  never  talk  about  me  when  you  get  to- 
gether with  your  fancy  work,  and  no  one  ever 
calls  me  a  saint. ' ' 

"Never,  my  dear,"  said  his  wife,  shaking 
her  head  laughingly  at  him. 

"One  could  hardly  fancy  a  stout,  bald- 
headed  iron  manufacturer  in  the  light  of  a 
medieval  saint,  you  know,  papa,"  said  Miss 
Barringer  quietly. 

"  In  short,  you  are  not  picturesque,  father," 
added  his  younger  daughter. 

"Yes,  I  see,"  Mr.  Barringer  said;  "and 
that  is  exactly  what  Norman  is.  You  haven't 
seen  him,  Mrs.  Mather?  Heard  of  him,  of 
course — the  rector  of  St.  Cuthbert's?  He  is 
a  good  fellow  ;  I  like  him  immensely,  though 
to  tell  you  the  truth,  I  don't  go  in  for  all  this 
ritual  business  myself.  Life's  too  short,  don't 
you  see,  and  I  was  brought  up  a  Methodist, 
and  it  doesn't  come  natural.  But  it  just  ex- 
actly suits  Mrs.  Barringer  and  the  girls,  and  I 
guess  you're  a  good  deal  their  kind." 
16 


H  TUOUnJ)  jflowet 

Mrs.  Mather  smiled  responsively,  while 
Mrs.  Barringer  looked  extremely  annoyed. 

"But  speaking  of  Norman.  Did  you  ever 
hear  about  how  he  lives  and  all  that  ?  It  is 
rather  strange.  He  inherited  from  his  father 
a  fine  old  mansion  right  there  in  Minster 
Street  in  our  place  ;  has  a  library — well  I 
don't  believe  there's  another  equal  to  it  in 
Coalport ;  fine  pictures  too — everything  of  the 
kind.  And  there  that  fellow  lives,  all  alone, 
isn't  married,  nor  likely  to  be  ;  some  think  he 
is  pledged  not  to  marry,  but  as  to  that  I  can' t 
say.  But  in  that  fine  house  he  takes  for  his 
own  room  a  place  hardly  bigger  than  a  closet, 
furnishes  it  with  an  iron  bed  and  a  crucifix, 
you  know,  that  kind  of  thing — and  has  every- 
thing the  poorest  and  plainest.  Just  like  a 
monk,  for  all  the  world.  Strange,  isn't  it?" 

"Yes,  but  I  can  quite  understand  it,  after 
all,  Mr.  Barringer,"  replied  Mrs.  Mather, 
plainly  interested.  They  were  interrupted  just 
then  by  a  sudden  movement  toward  a  game  of 
tennis,  made  by  the  Barringer  girls  and  the 
blonde  young  man,  whom  they  called.  Tom 
Ripley-.  Mrs.  Mather  was  strongly  urged  to 
make  up  the  game  ;  the  court  was  declared 
fairly  good,  the  morning  perfect. 

Eunice  Herendean  had  not  turned  a  leaf  in 
' '  Waverley ' '  since  she  took  it  up.    She  listened 
B  17 


a  IdinO  fflower 

now  with  strained  attention.  Perhaps  they 
would  ask  her  to  make  the  fourth,  for  Mrs. 
Mather  positively  declined  to  play.  There 
were  few  young  people  in  the  house — none 
who  played  tennis.  If  they  did  but  know  that 
she  had  played  in  that  court  every  summer 
since  she  was  a  child  !  If  they  could  see  Mary 
play  once  !  At  least  they  might  ask  her.  It 
almost  seemed  as  if  the  court  were  their  own, 
and  as  if  these  people  had  no  right  to  appro- 
priate it  without  referring  to  her  in  some  way. 
The  color  burned  in  her  cheeks  and  a  tingling 
expectation  ran  through  her.  In  a  moment 
more  there  was  a  sudden  silence  behind  her, 
and  she  saw  the  Barringer  girls  crossing  the 
lawn  toward  the  tennis  court.  A  little  later 
Tom  Ripley  followed  with  the  rackets,  and  Mr. 
Mather,  a  Harvard  instructor  of  studious  habit, 
went  slowly  after,  putting  away  the  book  he- 
had  been  reading,  with  undisguised  reluctance. 


18 


Ill 

flUNICE  HERENDEAN  left  the  ve- 
randa and  strolled  out  into  the  pine 
woods  near  the  house  in  search  of 
her  father  and  sister. 

She  was  stung  in  the  very  inner  core  of  her 
young  nature  by  the  cool  ignoring  and  patron- 
izing indifference  which  she  had  met.  It  was 
a  new  sensation  to  her  to  be  set  aside  entirely 
in  the  small  number  of  guests  at  Whippany,  as 
if  she  were  too  insignificant  to  be  even  ob- 
served. She  resented  the  manner  of  the  new 
set  hotly  ;  but  beneath  all  her  resentment  lay 
a  wistful  admiration  which  was  in  itself  the  se- 
cret of  her  pain.  Something  within  her  con- 
fessed that  she  would  not  have  craved  their 
notice  and  interest  as  she  did,  if  they  had 
lacked  the  peculiar  exclusiveness,  the  confi- 
dent authority  with  which  they  had  set  up 
their  dominion  in  Whippany. 

Eunice  felt,  but  could  not  define,  the  convin- 
cing ascendency  which  fascinated  while  it  an- 
gered her.  ' '  To  be  sure  that  you  are  the  best 
of  anybody,  that  must  be  what  can  make 
people  like  that,"  she  said  to  herself  as  she 


B  lUinD  fflowcv 

walked  on,  "  and  we  have  always  been  taught 
to  think  others  better  and  wiser  than  we.  I 
like  their  way  far  better.  I  wish  I  had  been 
brought  up  like  those  girls.  I  hate  feeling 
meek  and  inferior  and  bashful.  It  is  dreadful 
to  be  a  Friend,  anyway  !  How  those  people 
must  laugh  at  us  if  they  ever  think  of  us  at  all. " 

By  this  time  Eunice  had  reached  the  ham- 
mock in  the  deep  shade  of  the  pines,  where 
her  father  was  taking  a  quiet  nap.  Mary 
Herendean  held  up  a  warning  finger  as  Eunice 
approached. 

"Where  has  thee  been  all  this  time,  dar- 
ling ?  ' '  she  asked  fondly,  as  her  sister  slipped 
into  a  comfortable  reclining  position  on  the 
smooth  pine  needles  at  her  side. 

"  I  have  been  on  the  veranda  hearing  those 
Barringer  people  talk, ' '  was  the  reply. 

A  shade  crossed  Mary's  face.  She  had  fair 
hair  and  gray,  luminous  eyes,  possessed  of  a 
direct  and  thoughtful  gaze  ;  her  face  and  her 
whole  bearing  had  the  characteristic  quiet  and 
repose  which  is  often  seen  in  women  of  her 
sect.  She  was  not  pretty  like  Eunice,  but 
there  was  a  deeper  harmony  in  her  face.  They 
were  step-sisters,  and  Mary  was  the  elder  by 
five  years. 

"  Did  they  seem  to  want  to  know  thee  and 
talk  with  thee  ?  "   she  asked. 
20 


H  1«linO  fflowet 

Eunice  flushed  deeply. 

"  No,  not  at  all,"  she  said  briefly. 

"I  should  not  care  to  hover  about  a  com- 
pany of  people  like  that,  who  felt  no  interest  in 
me,"  Mary  said  ;  "it  hurts  one's  self-respect. 
It  is  a  better  place  for  thee,  child,  here 
with  us." 

Eunice  dug  the  toe  of  her  boot  into  the  pine 
needles  impatiently. 

"  I  should  think  thee  might  feel,  Mary,  that 
a  girl  of  my  age  would  sometimes  like  a  little 
enjoyment — something  besides  hearing  the 
'  Memoirs  of  Isaac  Foster '  and  '  his  valuable 
daughter  Lydia, '  and  how  he  had  a  '  concern  ' 
to  visit  one  meeting,  and  had  '  business  of 
great  weight '  in  another,  and  '  solemn  religious 
opportunities '  everywhere.  I  know  it  all  by 
heart  already,  and  I  am  so  tired,  Mary,  of 
never  having  any  fun. ' '  And  there  was  a  little 
trembling  of  Eunice's  pretty  mouth,  and  her 
eyes  darkened  with  tears. 

Mary  put  her  arm  around  her  and  kissed  her 
with  motherly  gentleness. 

"So  sorry  for  my  little  girl,"  she  said; 
"let's  go  and  have  some  tennis  while  father 
takes  his  nap." 

"We  can't,"  said  Eunice,  her  tears  flowing 
freely  under  Mary's  petting.      "Those  horrid 
people  have  got  the  court.     They  have  taken 
21 


B  WinD  Jflower 

possession  of  everything.  I  wish  we  could  go 
away  from  Whippany.  I  almost  hate  the  place 
now.  We  don' t  belong  anywhere,  and  it  used 
to  be  all  ours. ' ' 

Mary's  face  was  grave,  and  she  made  no 
reply. 

"  What  are  those  people,  anyway?  "  Eunice 
asked  petulantly.  "Are  those  nuns  Catholics? 
I  don' t  understand  anything  about  it. ' ' 

"  They  all  belong  to  the  Episcopal  commun- 
ion, I  am  sure.  Sister  Bertha  and  Sister  Eliza- 
beth came  from  a  Coalport  Episcopal  sister- 
hood. I  have  seen  women  of  their  order 
often  among  the  tenement  house  people  down 
in  the  lower  part  of  town." 

"What  do  they  do?" 

"  Oh,  they  help  the  women  with  their  sewing 
and  their  children,  and  take  care  of  the  sick 
and  all  that. ' ' 

"  Why  aren"  t  they  good  then  ?  ' ' 

"  They  are  good  and  devoted  and  they  do 
a  great  deal  of  good  ;  but  I  should  like  it  better 
if  they  did  not  wear  that  costume.  There 
seems  a  certain  assumption  and  self-conscious- 
ness in  it. ' ' 

"Why  any  more  than  in  Friends'  costume? 

I  don't  see  that  it  is  any  worse  to  wear  black 

gowns  and  black  scoop  bonnets   as   they  do 

than  to  wear  drab  and  brown  ones  as  Huldah 

22 


a  TJCUnD  Slower 

Mott  and  Deborah  Longstreth  do  !     They  are 
all  ugly  enough." 

"  I  don't  think  it  is  really  different,  essen- 
tially," answered  Mary  musingly.  "I  almost 
wonder  if  our  society  may  not  have  missed  the 
great  truth  of  inner  simplicity  by  clinging  so 
hard  to  outward  plainness." 

' '  Then  isn'  t  thee  a  Friend,  really,  in  thy 
heart,  Mary  ?  ' '  asked  Eunice,  sitting  up  with 
sudden  energy,  and  clasping  her  knees. 

Mary  shook  her  head  with  a  smile  which 
gave  a  peculiar  radiance  to  her  face. 

"I  am  not  anything  else,  at  least.  Of 
course,  all  Christians  are  agreed  on  the  essen- 
tial truths,  but  I  do  not  know  if  I  could  find 
anywhere,  in  all  the  different  Confessions  and 
communions,  the  spirit  I  most  long  for." 

"What  spirit,  Mary?" 

"  It  is  clear  to  me,"  Mary  answered  slowly, 
' '  but  I  hardly  know  how  to  describe  it.  But 
above  all  it  must  mean  fellowship,  I  think  ; 
sympathy,  brotherhood,  oneness  with  all  man- 
kind, high  or  low  ;  and  something  yet  beyond 
that,  something  which  makes  these  artificial 
distinctions  impossible.  Oh,  Eunice,  I  can't 
tell  thee  all  I  mean  in  this.  It  goes  far  and 
away  beyond  what  one  sees  on  the  surface  of 
it,"  and  as  she  spoke  Mary's  face  kindled  with 
the  sense  of  things  too  great  for  words. 
23 


S  TOUnD  flower 

Then  after  a  little  pause  she  added  under 
her  breath  : 

"  It  is  after  all,  only  trying  to  be  as  He  was, 
in  the  world." 

"  And  then  what  else  ?  "  asked  Eunice,  her 
dark  eyes  fixed  on  her  sister's  face. 

It  was  an  unusual  occurrence  for  Eunice  to 
show  interest  in  subjects  like  this,  and  Mary 
smiled  a  little,  as  she  replied  : 

"Freedom  next.  That  is  another  neces- 
sity to  me.  That  is  one  thing  which  makes 
me  not  quite  a  Friend,  and  not  quite  a  good 
many  other  things  which  people  run  into 
so  hard  just  now.  I  spoke  of  simplicity  to 
begin  with.  Those  are  my  cardinal  points 
little  sister.  Does  thee  agree  with  them  ? 
Thee  quite  makes  me  think  of  Elizabeth  Fry, 
this  morning,  writing  in  her  journal  when  she 
was  a  girl,  '  I  do  not  know  if  I  shall  not  soon 
be  rather  religious. '  ' ' 

The  sisters  laughed  together,  and  Eunice 
said  : 

"  It  might  really  come  to  pass.  But,  Mary, 
I  fancy  then  that  even  if  we  weren't  Friends, 
thee  wouldn't  go  in  for  altar-cloths  and  a  lot 
of  things  I  heard  those  people  talking  about. 
They  said  this  '  Father  Norman  '  as  they  call 
him,  was  going  to  hold  mass  over  in  Torridge 
next  First  Day.  I  knew  our  maids  at  home 
24 


flower 


went  to  mass,  but  I   never  supposed  people 
like  the  Barringers  did." 

"It  sounds  strangely  enough  for  Protestants, 
doesn't  it?" 

"Oh,  Mary,"  exclaimed  Eunice  with  a  sud- 
den thought,  '  '  why  can'  t  we  go  over  to  Tor- 
ridge  on  First  Day  to  church,  and  see  what 
their  '  mass  '  is  like  ?  Father  wouldn'  t  mind, 
would  he?  just  for  once.  It  would  be  so  new, 
and  I  am  so  curious  about  it.  '  ' 

"I  am  sorry  Eunice,  but  we  really  can't 
possibly.  It  would  not  do  to  leave  father 
alone  so  long  ;  he  is  very  feeble  lately,  and  I 
have  promised  to  go  and  be  with  the  Lewises.  '  ' 
Mary's  face  had  grown  suddenly  grave,  and  she 
continued:  "The  doctor  is  to  come  over 
that  morning  from  Concord  for  the  operation. 
It  is  such  a  heavy  anxiety  for  them,  thee 
knows,  dear  ;  poor  Mrs.  Lewis  is  quite  likely 
not  to  live  through  it.  '  ' 

Eunice's  face  clouded. 

"I  don't  see  why  thee  should  have  to  go 
through  such  dreadful  scenes.  Those  poor 
creatures  in  South  Whippany  always  seem  to 
fancy  thee  has  nothing  to  do  but  just  shoulder 
all  their  burdens.  I  think  father  and  I  ought 
to  have  a  little  consideration,"  and  Eunice 
pouted. 

Mary  looked  at  her  as  if  puzzled. 
25 


S  TJOUnD  fflower 

' '  Don' t  ever  talk  in  that  fashion  to  people 
who  don't  know  thee,  dear.  They  would 
think  thee  selfish  and  heartless. ' ' 

''And  perhaps  I  am,"  said  Eunice  carelessly, 
and  rising  as  she  spoke.  ' '  How  long  father 
sleeps.  I  am  going  back  to  the  house  now," 
and  turning  she  passed  slowly  between  the 
straight  and  stately  tree  trunks,  stooping  now 
and  then  as  she  went  to  gather  a  wild  straw- 
berry still  left  upon  its  tiny,  swaying  stem. 

The  wood  was  dim  and  dusky,  even  at  this 
hour,  and  the  slender  figure  in  its  straight 
white  gown  gliding  noiselessly  from  tree  to  tree 
over  the  smooth  ground,  might  well  have 
seemed  to  fit  a  fancy  of  woodland  nymph  or 
spirit.  Down,  far  below,  for  the  wood  was  on 
the  crest  of  a  hill,  ran  the  main  high  road.  A 
man  had  left  it  just  before,  to  strike  by  a 
straight  line  to  the  inn,  for  the  sun  was  high 
and  the  heat  growing  oppressive. 

The  path  which  this  man  was  taking  and  the 
irregular  line  of  Eunice's  progress,  converged, 
but  it  was  not  until  they  were  a  few  feet  apart 
that  the  young  girl  was  aware  that  she  was  not 
alone.  Lifting  her  eyes  she  saw  a  figure  in  the 
dress  of  an  Anglican  priest ;  an  austere  face, 
clear  cut  and  refined,  though  somewhat  worn, 
and  with  eyes  haunted  by  a  singular  brooding 

melancholy. 

26 


a  TlHlinO  fflower 

Surprised  and  confused,  Eunice  stopped, 
and  with  clasped  hands  dropped  before  her 
glanced  up  shyly,  a  faint  color  rising  to  her 
cheeks.  The  man's  eyes  met  hers  with  a  swift, 
serious  glance,  and  removing  his  hat  with  a 
gesture  of  almost  reverent  courtesy  he  bowed, 
and  passed  on  through  the  wood.  It  was 
Father  Norman. 

Eunice  stood  a  little  space  where  he  had  left 
her,  her  heart  beating  incredibly  loud,  and  a 
strange,  exultant  thrill  running  through  all  her 
blood.  Young  as  she  was  she  was  woman 
enough  to  perceive  that  he  had  done  homage 
in  his  salutation  not  alone  to  her  womanhood 
but  to  her  beauty. 


27 


IV 


|T  was  Saturday  night.  Some  friends 
of  the  Barringers  had  come  to  the 
inn  from  a  neighboring  hotel,  and 
there  was  dancing  in  the  wide  hall  and  in  the 
rooms  adjoining. 

On  the  veranda  the  rector  of  St.  Cuthbert's 
paced  back  and  forth  alone,  apparently  deep 
in  thought.  In  his  round  of  the  veranda, 
which  enclosed  the  house  on  three  sides,  he 
passed  and  repassed  at  intervals  a  lonely  little 
figure  sitting  close  to  an  open  casement  win- 
dow, with  head  thrown  back  against  the  window 
frame.  The  bright  light  within  struck  full  upon 
the  profile,  bringing  out  the  soft  curve  of  the 
uplifted  chin  and  slender  white  throat.  There 
was  an  unconscious,  wistful  pensiveness  in  the 
mouth  and  in  the  great  dark  eyes  as  they 
watched  the  gayety  within  which  were  not 
wholly  lost  upon  Father  Norman,  scant  notice 
as  he  seemed  to  take  of  the  girlish  figure. 

Eunice  Herendean's  nature  was  full  of  tu- 
multuous restlessness  just  now,  and  her  inner 
life  was  undergoing  a  deep  unheaval.  But  her 
Quaker  habit  and  breeding  held  all  this  out- 
28 


B  Wind  flower 


wardly  under  command,  and  her  attitudes  and 
expressions  still  possessed  the  charm  of  a  child- 
like repose. 

A  statue  could  hardly  have  been  stiller, 
thought  Father  Norman,  than  that  lovely 
shape,  thrown  in  its  white  purity  of  face  and 
dress  against  the  outer  darkness.  Her  hands 
lay  motionless  in  her  lap ;  nothing  moved 
about  her,  save  the  soft,  dark  hair,  which  the 
wind  now  and  then  stirred  above  her  forehead. 
A  fancy  strayed  through  Father  Norman's 
mind  that  the  dancers  in  the  rooms  beyond, 
flushed  and  heated  and  gayly  dressed,  were 
like  a  motley  bed  of  common  garden  flowers, 
beside  a  dainty  wild  flower  he  had  seen  apart 
in  shady  woods  sometimes,  pure  and  white 
after  a  spring  rain. 

The  fancy  did  not  altogether  please  the 
rector,  or  possibly  it  pleased  him  too  well ;  in 
any  case  he  disappeared,  turning  the  next  cor- 
ner, and  returned  that  way  no  more. 

Presently  Miss  Barringer  came  out  from  the 
hall  with  young  Ripley.  Eunice  listened  idly 
to  their  words  as  they  passed  her.  It  was  so 
warm  inside  ;  those  rooms  were  never  made 
for  dancing  ;  a  quaint  old  place,  though — Miss 
Barringer  really  liked  it,  for  once,  in  a  way  ; 
they  should  go  to  the  Profile  next  year. 

On  the  next  round  they  were  speaking  of 
29 


B  TIDUnO  Jflower 

the  expedition  to  Torridge  to  the  church  serv- 
ice next  morning.  Miss  Barringer  was  deter- 
mined to  walk.  Torridge  was  only  five  miles 
distant,  but  all  the  others  would  drive  over, 
except  Father  Norman  and  Tom  Ripley,  who 
would  go  early ;  of  course  she  could  not  go 
with  them.  When  they  had  passed  Eunice, 
Tom  Ripley  exclaimed  on  a  sudden  impulse  : 

"Why  don't  you  ask  that  little  Quaker  girl 
to  walk  over  with  you  ?  She  would  do  it  in  a 
minute,  I'll  venture  to  say.  You  ought  to  see 
her  and  her  sister  play  tennis.  They  are  great 
at  all  such  things,  and  a  little  matter  of  five 
miles  wouldn't  bother  her  a  bit." 

The  result  of  this  suggestion  appeared  in  the 
fact  that  on  the  return  Miss  Barringer  stopped 
by  Eunice's  window,  and  remarked  casually: 

"  I  have  not  seen  your  father  in  the  dining 
room  for  a  day  or  two,  I  think.  He  is  not  ill,  is 
he,  Miss  Herendean  ?  " 

Eunice  looked  up  in  great  surprise.  It  was 
the  first  time  since  their  arrival  that  one  of 
' '  the  new  people ' '  had  voluntarily  addressed 
her.  She  replied  with  a  certain  dignity  which 
became  her,  that  her  father  had  not  been  so 
well  as  usual  for  several  days. 

' '  How  perfectly  devoted  youi  sister  is  to 
him, ' '  was  Miss  Barringer' s  next  remark.    ' '  We 
all  think  she  is  just  fine." 
3° 


B  TUainO  fflower 


This  observation  gave  Eunice  a  curious  little 
pain,  but  she  responded  with  suitable  acquies- 
cence. 

There  was  further  talk,  somewhat  aimless  and 
unimportant,  and  then  Miss  Barringer  quite 
incidentally  mentioned  that  there  was  to  be  a 
little  service  in  the  village  church  at  Torridge 
in  the  morning,  and  she  had  wondered  if  Miss 
Eunice  Herendean  would  not  perhaps  like  to 
walk  over  with  her.  The  service,  she  was  sure, 
would  be  very  lovely,  quite  simple  of  course, 
being  in  a  country  church,  but  Father  Nor- 
man always  gave  such  a  beautiful  quality  to 
every  service,  and  the  walk  would  be  charming 
if  one  were  a  good  walker. 

For  an  instant  Eunice  had  a  swimming  sen- 
sation before  her  eyes  as  excitement  and  sur- 
prise grew  great  within  her. 

"  It  would  be  a  lovely  walk,"  she  said  with 
hesitancy,  the  thought  striking  coldly  through 
her  exaltation,  of  her  father's  helplessness  and 
of  Mary's  promise  to  be  with  Mrs.  Lewis  in 
her  time  of  need. 

"Oh,  you  must  really  go,  Miss  Eunice," 
said  Tom  Ripley  with  cordial  encouragement  ; 
11 1  know  you  will  like  the  service  immensely  ; 
there's  going  to  be  a  lovely  Gloria." 

The  very  fact  that  she  understood  but 
vaguely  what  he  meant  by  the  Gloria,  com- 


H  TKflinD  flower 


pleted  the  conquest  with  Eunice.  She  felt  this 
to  be  her  opportunity.  Now  at  last  her  time 
was  come  to  associate  with  "the  Barringers  " 
on  equal  terms,  and  to  penetrate  into  the 
mystery  of  their  religious  practices,  a  subject 
which  had  become  day  by  day  more  fascinat- 
ing to  her  by  the  quality  of  exclusiveness  and 
distinction  investing  it.  Having  won  her  con- 
sent, Miss  Barringer  and  Tom  Ripley  passed 
on. 

"Poor  little  thing,"  and  Miss  Barringer 
laughed;  "I  suppose  'Moses  Herendean,' 
as  he  wishes  to  be  called,  and  that  calm  sister 
Mary,  will  frown  upon  her,  but  really,  it  is  only 
common  kindness  to  take  some  notice  of  the 
child.  Have  you  seen  how  pitiful  and  forlorn 
she  looks  all  the  while  ?  ' ' 

Tom  Ripley  started  to  say  that  he  had  no- 
ticed to-night  how  very  lovely  she  looked,  but 
being  versed  in  the  wisdom  of  good  society  he 
forebore. 


3  2 


]N  alcove  at  the  end  of  the  upper  hall, 
with  casement  windows  opening  upon 
a  balcony,  was  a  favorite  nook  for 
letter-writing  at  Whippany  Inn,  and  here  Mary 
Herendean  was  sitting  alone,  bending  over  her 
portfolio,  when  Eunice  ran  upstairs  breathless 
and  excited  from  her  interview  with  Miss  Bar- 
ringer. 

"Oh,  Mary,"  she  exclaimed,  seeking  to 
hide  an  undercurrent  of  apprehension  beneath 
a  manner  of  confident  gladness,  "such  a  won- 
derful thing  has  happened  !  " 

"What  is  it,  love?"  asked  Mary  smilingly. 

"I  am  going  with  Miss  Barringer  to  the 
service  at  Torridge  to-morrow.  She  has  asked 
me  to  walk  over  with  her.  I  am  sorry  if  it 
should  be  a  little  inconvenient,  but  I  really 
could  not  refuse." 

Mary  Herendean' s  face  changed.  "  No, 
Eunice,"  she  said  in  a  very  low  voice,  "thee 
cannot  mean  that  thee  has  promised  to  go  to 
that  service  to-morrow." 

"Yes,"  replied  Eunice,   with  a  certain  in- 
ward quaking,  "  I  have  promised." 
c  33 


B  THUmfc  fflower 

"But  thee  must  have  forgotten  what  we 
were  speaking  of  a  few  days  ago. ' ' 

1 '  I  did  not  forget,  but  I  consider  myself  old 
enough  to  judge  what  is  right  in  such  matters, 
and  decide  for  myself.  I  am  sorry  if  thee  is 
displeased,  Mary,  but  I  am  really  going." 

Mary  rose  and  looked  at  Eunice,  deeply 
stirred  with  pain  and  indignation.  The  young 
girl  had  learned  from  past  experiences  to  be- 
ware the  fury  of  one  so  patient  under  ordinary 
testing,  and  her  eyelids  drooped,  though  her 
mouth  was  firmly  set. 

"I  am  so  angry,  Eunice,  that  I  do  not  feel 
as  if  I  could  talk  about  it  with  thee. ' '  Mary 
spoke  quickly,  not  raising  her  voice,  but  with 
a  vibration  of  feeling  in  it,  startling  in  one 
usually  so  self-contained.  "It  is  thoroughly 
wrong,  what  thee  is  doing — unworthy,  disloyal 
to  thyself,  to  all  of  us. ' ' 

Neither  of  the  sisters  in  the  strained  excite- 
ment of  the  moment  had  observed  that  Father 
Norman  had  entered  the  room  from  the  bal- 
cony, where  he  had  been  sitting  alone,  un- 
known to  Mary,  and  they  both  turned  in 
surprise  at  the  sound  of  his  voice. 

"Pardon  me,  Miss  Herendean,"  he  said, 
bowing  with  gentle  courtesy;  "  I  have  unwill- 
ingly heard  your  conversation,  and  even 
though  I  may  run  the  risk  of  drawing  your 
34 


B  trains  jflower 

displeasure  upon  myself,  formidable  as  that 
would  be,"  and  he  smiled  slightly,  "  I  am 
going  to  be  bold  enough  to  say  a  word  on 
your  sister's  behalf." 

Mary  Herendean,  confused  and  startled, 
stood  before  Father  Norman,  dispossessed  for 
the  moment  of  her  wonted  serenity  and  poise, 
while  Eunice,  with  tears  on  her  long  lashes, 
and  grieved,  piteous  mouth,  looked  up  to  the 
new-comer  like  an  innocent  chidden  child  ap- 
pealing for  defense. 

"It  is  only  this.  Her  desire  to  attend 
Holy  Communion  to-morrow  morning  would 
seem  an  innocent  and  pardonable  one.  Surely 
it  can  contain  no  element  of  wrong  so  great  as 
the  indulgence  of  anger." 

Father  Norman  spoke  with  a  tone  and  gesture 
in  which  a  touch  of  priestly  authority  could  be 
distinctly  felt,  and  Mary  Herendean  found  her- 
self strangely  moved  by  his  rebuke. 

Father  Norman  had  crossed  to  the  entrance 
of  the  writing  room,  but  stood  a  moment 
longer,  adding  with  kindly  but  distinct  em- 
phasis : 

"  Even  though  our  forms  of  worship  may  be 
widely  different  from  yours,  we  have  learned  to 
look  for  the  sweetness  of  tolerance  and  Chris- 
tian charity  from  Friends,"  and  his  direct, 
searching  eyes  rested  full  upon  Mary's. 
35 


H  Tiratno  fflowet 

A  sudden  color  rushed  to  her  cheeks.  His 
misapprehension  of  the  cause  of  her  anger  was 
palpable  ;  her  sense  of  justice  rebelled  against 
the  imputation  of  sectarian  prejudice,  and  yet 
she  could  not  speak.  To  justify  herself  would 
be  to  accuse  the  child  she  loved.  But  Eunice — 
she  could  not  fail  to  see  what  was  so  obvious  ; 
she  could  not  fail  to  say  out  what  they  both 
knew  perfectly  to  be  the  actual  ground  of  this 
disagreement. 

It  was  only  an  instant,  perhaps  there  was 
not  time  ;  Mary  tried  to  think  so  afterward. 
Then  Father  Norman  had  left  the  room,  and 
Eunice  had  not  spoken. 

"  Perhaps  thee  will  learn  now  to  control  thy 
temper  better,"  said  Eunice  softly,  as  she 
turned  to  go  to  her  own  room. 

Mary  did  not  speak  ;  but  she  looked  at  her 
sister  as  she  walked  lightly  down  the  long  hall 
as  one  who  comprehended  her  not. 

Left  alone,  Mary  had  no  time  to  taste  the 
bitterness  of  mortification  and  wounded  feel- 
ing, for  the  practical  consideration  of  what  was 
to  be  done  in  the  premises  engaged  her  of  ne- 
cessity. It  was  ten  o'clock  already,  and  she 
had  promised  to  go  to  the  Lewises  in  the  early 
morning.  After  a  little  consideration  she 
wrote  a  hurried  note  to  a  good  friend  of  her 
father's,  Joseph  Willitts,  a  small  farmer  of 
36 


B  WinO  fflower 


South  Whippany,  begging  him  to  come  and 
remain  with  her  father  during  her  necessary 
absence.  This  note  she  dispatched  by  a  special 
messenger,  a  matter  of  no  small  difficulty  at 
this  hour. 


37 


VI 


|N  hour  later,  at  the  close  of  the  even- 
ing, Father  Norman  encountered 
Miss  Barringer  at  the  foot  of  the 
staircase.  He  had  just  come  in  from  a  late 
walk,  for  the  night  was  fine  and  the  mountains 
majestic  under  the  stars.  Miss  Barringer  re- 
turned his  greeting  with  a  brilliant  smile,  and 
looked,  in  her  delicately  tinted  evening  dress, 
on  nearer  view,  not  at  all  like  a  common  flower, 
Father  Norman  reflected,  recalling  an  earlier 
fancy. 

"You  have  enjoyed  the  evening,  Miss  Bar- 
ringer? "  he  asked. 

' '  Oh,  yes.  You  know  I  dearly  love  to 
dance,  Father  Norman,"  she  replied.  "You 
never  do  those  things,  of  course  ?  ' '  she  added, 
with  a  certain  hesitancy  not  usual  to  her. 

"  I  do  not  happen  to,  myself,"  he  answered  ; 
"but  it  is  one  of  the  signs  of  the  church's 
greatness  that  it  so  expressly  recognizes  the 
whole  round  of  our  human  need,  for  gay  as 
well  as  for  grave. ' ' 

"Yes,"  responded  Miss  Barringer  quickly, 
"  how  different  it  is  from  the  doubtful  and  un- 
38 


B  THIUn&  fflower 

easy  attitude  of  the  sects  on  all  these  matters. 
Formally,  you  know,  they  feel  called  upon  to 
condemn  and  renounce  'the  world,'  as  they 
call  the  gayety  of  life,  but  practically  they  fol- 
low it  just  as  far  as  they  dare." 

Father  Norman  listened  to  the  clear,  assured 
conviction  of  these  utterances  with  unmistak- 
able interest,  and  for  the  moment  the  austere 
melancholy  of  his  face  gave  way. 

"Yes,"  he  replied,  "they  are  placed  in  a 
peculiarly  equivocal  position,  most  deplorable 
to  witness.  This  very  thing,  it  appears  to  me, 
is  one  sign  of  their  decay.  The  original  im- 
pulse which  impelled  them  away  from  mother 
church  has  lost  its  power,  exists  only  as  a  dead 
letter." 

"Then,  do  you  not  think,  Father  Norman, 
that  as  they  have  really  lost  their  raison  d'etre 
as  separate  bodies,  they  will  gradually  drift 
back  into  the  unity  of  the  truth  ?  " 

One  would  hardly  have  anticipated  the  ec- 
clesiastical fervor  with  which  these  words  were 
spoken  in  a  girl  of  Miss  Barringer's  type. 

"  Oh,  I  look  for  it,"  Father  Norman  replied 
with  subdued  fire,  clasping  his  hands  behind, 
him  and  dropping  his  head  in  an  attitude 
habitual  with  him  when  thinking;  "but  it  will 
not  be  in  our  time,  Miss  Barringer,  I  fear,  un- 
less the  whole  church  can  be  aroused  to  a  sense 
39 


21  "QQinD  fflower 

of  its  opportunity,  the  opportunity  which  is  be- 
fore us  at  this  very  hour,  I  sometimes  believe, 
to  restore  all  Christendom  to  catholicity. ' ' 

"  What  a  glorious  thought  !"  Miss  Barrin- 
ger  said,  her  fine  eyes  kindling,  and  her  whole 
face  lighted  with  responsive  enthusiasm. 

But  even  as  she  spoke,  Father  Norman 
lifted  his  head,  and  looking  in  his  face  Miss 
Barringer  perceived  with  wonder,  that  its  habit- 
ual melancholy  had  returned  and  all  the  light 
of  enthusiasm  had  departed.  Something  like  a 
sigh  escaped  his  lips. 

"This  human  nature  of  ours  is  a  strange 
thing,"  he  said  with  a  faint  smile.  "It  will 
bear  watching,"  he  added  whimsically. 

Although  puzzled,  Miss  Barringer  was  quick 
to  meet  his  altered  mood. 

"I  see  how  you  mean,"  she  said  gently, 
although  she  did  not  in  fact  gain  even  the 
faintest  perception  of  what  was  going  on  in  his 
mind,  and  then,  skillfully  turning  to  another 
subject,  she  said  : 

"Speaking  of  the  various  sects,  do  you 
know,  Father  Norman,  that  I  am  really  rather 
interested  in  this  Quaker  family  who  are  here 
at  the  inn.  Did  you  know  that  they  are  Coal- 
port  people  ?  I  never  heard  of  them  at  home, 
but  they  strike  me  as  quite  unusual.  You 
know  there  is  nothing  in  the  world  so  aristo- 
40 


a  TUJlinD  fflower 

cratic,  in  its  way,  as  one  of  those  old  Quaker 
families,  and  Moses  Herendean  impresses  me 
as  a  perfect  specimen  of  that  type. ' ' 

Father  Norman  had  looked  up  quickly  at 
the  first  mention  of  the  Herendeans. 

"Yes,  a  fine  old  man,"  he  said,  nodding 
gravely. 

"Now  their  conception  of  life  is  different 
again  from  all  the  other  sects,"  Miss  Barringer 
remarked  ;  she  was  evidently  not  unwilling  to 
prolong  the  interview.  Father  Norman  was 
not  often  available  for  social  purposes. 

"Yes,"  he  replied;  "there  is  a  body  in 
which,  theoretically,  every  man  and  woman  is 
called  to  the  religious  vocation.  They  too 
have  declined  from  their  initial  conceptions, 
but  with  minor  differences  the  entire  sect 
might  be  fitly  described  as  a  sisterhood  and  a 
brotherhood,  living  apart  from  the  world,  dis- 
tinguished by  dress  and  speech  and  occupation, 
— in  short,  they  have  really,  in  a  degree,  the 
notion  of  dedicated  lives." 

"Why,  Father  Norman,"  exclaimed  Miss 
Barringer,  "I  have  always  thought  of  Friends 
as  being  at  the  very  antipodes  from  us,  but  as 
you  describe  them,  they  almost  seem  to  come 
nearer  to  the  ideals  of  the  Church  than  any  of 
the  other  denominations." 

"  In  a  partial  sense  that  is  true.  For  in- 
4* 


TttflinO  fflower 


stance,  there  can  be  such  a  thing  as  a  ritual  of 
silence,"  Father  Norman  said  briefly,  with  his 
rare  smile.  ' '  But,  good-night,  Miss  Barringer  ; 
I  fear  I  have  detained  you  inconsiderately," 
and  he  was  about  turning  to  leave  her,  when 
he  paused,  and  with  a  shade  of  embarrassment 
on  his  face,  said  : 

' '  By  the  way,  if  Miss  Herendean,  the 
younger  sister,  should  go  with  you  to  the  cele- 
bration in  the  morning,  let  me  suggest  that 
you  try  to  help  her  a  little  in  understanding 
the  meaning  of  the  service.  I  fancy  it  may  be 
altogether  new  to  her,  and  possibly  a  little 
confusing  at  the  first. ' ' 

Miss  Barringer  readily  acquiesced  in  this  sug- 
gestion, and  pursued  her  way  up  to  her  room 
with  an  expression  of  peculiar  satisfaction  on 
her  face. 

In  his  own  room  that  night  Father  Norman 
sat  long  by  the  open  window,  musing. 

' '  I  did  not  know  those  people  were  from 
Coalport, ' '  his  thoughts  ran  on ;  "I  wonder 
that  it  did  not  occur  to  me  at  once.  It  all 
comes  back  to  me  now  clearly.  Years  ago  my 
mother  was  something  like  an  intimate  friend, 
if  I  remember  correctly,  of  Moses  Herendean' s 
wife.  Let  me  see.  Mrs.  Herendean  died 
when  I  was  a  little  fellow,  not  ten  years  old,  I 
should  think,  but  I  remember  it  because  her 
42 


B  Wind  fflower 

death  was  tragic,  and  affected  my  mother  so 
deeply.  She  was  burned  in  trying  to  save  her 
baby  from  a  fire  which  was  caused  by  the  ex- 
plosion of  a  lamp  in  her  bedroom.  I  know 
the  house  where  they  lived  perfectly,  the  old 
brick  mansion  down  in  Willow  Street.  I 
wonder  if  they  live  there  still.  I  have  heard 
nothing  of  any  of  them  in  years. 

"Now,  let  me  see,  that  child  might  be  the 
older  of  these  two  girls  ;  doubtless  there  was 
a  second  marriage,  but  of  that  I  never  heard 
that  I  remember.  That  would  account  for  the 
striking  difference  between  the  two  sisters. 
The  elder  has  some  fine  points ;  evidently  she 
has  the  capacity  for  a  high  devotion  to  duty 
along  narrow  lines,  but  what  an  embodiment 
of  suppressed  wrath  she  was  to-night.  A  pity 
for  such  a  woman  to  be  so  controlled  by  preju- 
dice. Her  anger  would  have  been  positively 
majestic  if  it  had  been  for  a  righteous  cause. 
Plainly  she  is  a  Quaker  through  and  through, 
of  the  most  primitive  stamp.  The  sister  is 
distinctly  of  another  strain.  A  lovely  crea- 
ture ! ' '  and  Father  Norman  smiled  slightly  as 
he  recalled  the  slender  figure  of  Eunice  as  she 
stood  before  him  looking  up  as  if  for  protec- 
tion from  her  sister's  wrath. 

"  Poor  little  thing  !  "  his  thoughts  ran  on, 
"what  solemn,  innocent  eyes  she  has,  like 
43 


21  TlfiUnD  fflower 

those  of  a  sweet  child.  The  Quaker  atmos- 
phere produces  a  very  different  temperament 
from  that  of  the  restless,  modern  world-spirit. 
What  could  be  more  striking,  in  a  way  more 
suggestive  than  the  juxtaposition  of  that  girl 
and  Florence  Barringer  ?  Each  is  interesting 
in  her  way.  Miss  Barringer  spoke  of  the  aris- 
tocratic quality  of  such  a  family  as  the  Heren- 
deans.  I  suppose  that  would  rather  impress 
her.  I  used  to  know  something  of  their 
ancestry  ;  I  remember  hearing  my  mother  say 
that  the  Herendeans  were  English  gentlefolk  in 
Oliver's  time.  Yes,  yes,  and  it  was  only  the 
last  Barringer  who  kept  a  small  market  in 
Lower  Coalport.  A  good  Methodist  lay- 
preacher  he  was,  bill  ignorant  and  especially 
bitter  against  everything  which  he  called  '  Po- 
pistical.' 

"Possibly  the  Barringers  prefer  to  forget  the 
old  man,  but  they  ought  not  to  be  sensitive  in 
that  regard  ;  their  family  history  is  precisely 
according  to  the  American  genius,  and  by  no 
means  one  to  be  ashamed  of.  But  I  wonder  if 
that  little  girl  will  carry  her  point  and  go  to 
the  service  to-morrow,"  and  with  this  thought 
of  the  morrow  Father  Norman's  face  grew 
graver,  and  rising  he  took  down  from  a  shelf  a 
volume  of  John  Henry  Newman's  sermons, 
and  was  soon  deeply  immersed  in  devotional 
44 


a  TflJltn&  fftower 

thought  and  contemplation.  Above  his  nar- 
row desk  hung  a  small,  finely  carved  crucifix 
of  old  ivory,  to  which  he  raised  his  eyes  at  in- 
tervals, crossing  himself  devoutly. 

But  once,  in  the  midst  of  his  meditation, 
came  the  sudden  darkening  of  his  face  as  once 
before  that  night,  his  head  sank  upon  the  desk 
before  him,  and  he  wrung  his  hands  until  the 
veins  knotted  hard  upon  them.  Something 
like  a  groan  was  upon  his  lips,  and  with  it  an 
audible  cry  : 

' '  O  my  God,  remove  this  temptation  far 
from  me." 


45 


VII 

|ETWEEN  lovely  meadows,  dew-span- 
gled and  fragrant,  Eunice  Herendean 
had  tripped,  light  of  foot  and  heart, 
by  the  side  of  the  stately  Miss  Barringer  to 
Torridge  old  town. 

Why  should  she  not  be  light  of  heart  ? 
Mary  was  already  on  duty  in  the  Lewis  cot- 
tage. Joseph  Willitts  had  responded  promptly 
to  the  summons,  and  their  father,  accepting 
the  services  of  a  fresh  attendant  submissively, 
and  well  satisfied  with  a  new  hearer  for  certain 
chapters  of  the  Memoir,  had  treated  his  dear 
little  daughter  with  tender  indulgence.  Mary 
plainly,  to  the  mind  of  Eunice,  stood  convicted 
of  having  made  an  uncalled-for  scene,  and  the 
younger  sister  had  decidedly  the  advantage  of 
the  situation.  As  to  the  moral  quality  of  her 
action,  no  scruple  regarding  it  came  to  disturb 
the  equanimity  of  Eunice's  young  spirit.  Was 
not  all  well  if  it  ended  well  ?  Serene  in  this 
mildly  Machiavellian  philosophy,  Eunice  went 
on  her  way  rejoicing. 

Their  talk  on  the  way  to  Torridge  was  largely 
of  Father  Norman,  his  ascetic  life,  his  wonder- 
46 


H  WinD  flower 

ful  devotion  to  his  work,  the  marked  advance 
along  the  line  of  ritualism  which  he  had  in- 
augurated as  rector  of  St.  Cuthbert's,  the 
complete  confidence  with  which  his  people 
followed  him,  above  all,  the  profoundly  mov- 
ing fact  that  it  was  almost  certain  that  he 
would  never  marry.  This  Miss  Barringer  felt 
to  be  the  final  and  most  affecting  touch  in  the 
picture  she  drew  for  the  wondering  Quaker 
girl,  of  Father  Norman  as  a  medieval  saint 
fallen  upon  this  present  evil  time. 

"Our  only  fear  at  St.  Cuthbert's,"  she  re- 
marked as  they  approached  the  church  down 
the  village  street,  "is  that  he  will  never  be 
satisfied  until  he  joins  some  brotherhood, 
where  he  may  carry  out  fully  his  ideal  of  the 
Christian  saint  in  a  monastic  life."  Miss 
Barringer' s  tone  imparted  a  touch  of  exalted 
sadness  to  this  suggestion,  and  Eunice  found 
herself  sensibly  affected,  although  at  first 
thought  it  had  struck  her  as  rather  droll  to 
think  of  a  Protestant  Coalport  gentleman  be- 
coming a  monk. 

The  church,  a  memorial  to  some  wealthy 
lover  of  the  little  mountain  town,  built  of  stone 
and  approached  through  a  grassy  and  shaded 
churchyard,  was  almost  tiny  in  its  proportions 
and  built  on  the  model  of  some  of  the  ancient 
English  country  churches,  low  and  long,  with 
47 


a  TJCUnD  fflowet 

the  square  Norman  tower,  and  narrow,  deep- 
set  windows.  The  bell  was  ringing,  but  it  was 
still  early,  and  the  two  girls  were  among  the 
first  to  enter  the  door. 

Coming  in  from  the  clear  radiance  of  the 
morning,  Eunice  could  at  first  scarcely  discern 
the  interior  of  the  church  ;  the  light  was  dim, 
passing  through  the  small  stained  windows,  but 
in  the  distance  against  a  deep  red  background 
gleamed  out  sharply  a  cross  of  burnished  brass, 
with  candles  burning  on  either  side.  This 
only  had  Eunice  taken  cognizance  of,  when 
she  saw  with  amazement  and  confusion  that 
Miss  Barringer  had  sunk  upon  her  knees,  and 
with  eyes  fixed  upon  the  cross  was  in  act  of 
profound  and  adoring  reverence.  Eunice  won- 
dered if  she  would  take  it  ill  that  she  did  not 
do  the  same,  and  was  hesitating  awkwardly  as 
to  what  behooved  her  in  the  matter,  when  Miss 
Barringer,  making  the  sign  of  the  cross  upon 
her  person,  rose  from  her  knees  and  advanced 
down  the  aisle  to  seats  not  far  from  the  chancel 
rail.  Eunice  sat  very  straight  and  very  ill  at 
ease  while  her  companion  again  kneeling  at 
her  side  seemed  lost  for  a  long  space  in  devout 
prayer.  The  shy,  undemonstrative  girl,  trained 
in  the  high  restraint  and  severe  self- repression 
of  her  father's  faith,  wondered  greatly  that  one 
could  "engage  in  prayer,"  as  she  phrased  it, 
'48 


H  THHinD  Slower 


so  evidently  private  and  personal,  in  a  public 
place  ;  nevertheless  she  felt  keenly  a  sense  of 
cold  and  heavy  discomfort  in  her  aloofness 
from  what  seemed  proper  to  the  place. 

She  was  relieved  by  a  little  stir  behind  her. 
The  delegation  from  Whippany  was  coming  in, 
and  Eunice  looked  on  with  childish  curiosity 
as  the  two  sisters  in  their  black  robes  came  rev- 
erently down  the  aisle  followed  by  Mrs.  Mather 
and  Miss  Archibald.  The  latter  wore  a  rather 
giddy  bonnet,  and  fluttered  along  behind  the 
others  in  an  important  and  enthusiastic  man- 
ner. She  was  followed  by  the  Barringers — 
Mr.  Barringer,  grave  and  impressive,  Mrs.  Bar- 
ringer,  stately  and  sumptuous  in  silk  and  lace 
with  Grace  behind  her,  quiet  but  distingue. 

After  this  the  church  filled  fast  with  summer 
people  in  fine  raiment,  dignified  men  and 
delicate  women.  Then  Eunice  lifting  her 
head,  was  aware  of  strains  of  singing,  voices 
clear,  high,  and  flutelike,  in  the  distance, 
coming  ever  nearer ;  and  with  a  strange  thrill 
of  surprise,  for  she  was  wholly  unfamiliar  with 
the  practices  of  the  Episcopal  Church,  she  saw, 
following  a  crucifix  borne  aloft,  a  procession  of 
boys  in  white  garments,  like,  she  thought,  to 
angels,  pass,  singing  louder  and  more  loud 
up  the  aisle.  So  close  at  last  they  came  that 
she  could  have  touched  the  white  linen  of  their 
D  49 


Jflowet 


vestments  with  her  hand.  After  the  boys  came 
youths  and  men,  and  with  startled  surprise  she 
recognized  Mr.  Mather,  book  in  hand,  with 
look  detached  and  uplifted.  Following  him,  in 
crimson  cassock  and  white  tunic,  walked  alone 
a  young  man  with  fair  hair  and  color  like  a 
girl,  upon  whose  face  rested  a  peculiar  solem- 
nity, and  in  whom  she  recognized  with  wonder 
Tom  Ripley,  the  gay,  fashionable  fellow  whom 
she  had  associated  hitherto  with  cards  and 
dancing  and  tennis.  Last  of  all,  in  his  priestly 
robes,  alone,  with  head  slightly  bowed,  came 
Father  Norman.  His  hands  were  held  palm 
to  palm  against  his  breast,  and  his  eyes  were 
fixed  straight  before  him  ;  his  face  wore  the 
mask  of  impenetrable  reserve  and  impassive- 
ness  which  is  peculiar  to  those  accustomed  to 
be  the  chief  actors  in  highly  emotional  scenes 
enacted  before  the  public  eye. 

The  procession  passed  on,  the  notes  of  the 
hymn  died  away,  and  Eunice  heard  a  voice, 
marvelously  sweet  and  controlling,  intoning 
familiar  words  of  Scripture.  It  was  Father 
Norman's  voice,  but  Eunice  had  not  heard  it 
before  in  that  fashion.  He  had  always  seemed 
to  her  apart  from  other  men,  unapproachable, 
perhaps ;  but  seeing  him  now  in  his  priestly 
dress  and  function — august,  remote  from 
common  things,  her  quick  sensibility  received 
5° 


jflowet 


an  overmastering  impression  of  authority, 
power,  and  exaltation  under  which  she  trem- 
bled physically. 

As  the  service  went  on,  Miss  Barringer 
found  the  places  attentively  in  the  prayer 
book  for  Eunice,  and  tried  to  guide  her  unac- 
customed steps  in  the  right  path  ;  but  Eunice 
made  little  attempt  to  follow  in  thought. 
Keenly  impressible  to  new  influences,  deli- 
cately sensuous  in  her  temperament,  and  in- 
stinctively romantic,  her  emotional  nature  was 
powerfully  swept  by  the  onward  flow  of  the 
stately  and  brilliant  ceremonial.  What  it 
meant  she  was  at  no  pains  just  then  to  learn. 

She  had  no  idea,  however  remote,  of  the 
significance  of  the  faint,  sweet  odor  and  the 
dim  light  which  pervaded  the  church  ;  of 
young  Ripley's  shadowlike  attendance  upon 
Father  Norman  ;  of  the  sudden  and  apparently 
inconsequent  changes  of  posture  among  the 
worshipers. 

She  saw  Father  Norman  bend  and  kiss  the 
altar  ;  she  saw  him  prostrate  himself  before 
something  placed  upon  it  with  an  apparent 
rapture  of  worship  transcending  anything  she 
could  have  imagined  ;  she  saw  him  lift  a  shin- 
ing chalice  in  the  sight  of  all  the  people  ;  but 
what  this  holy  thing  was  and  why  he  worshiped 
it  she  had  no  conception  or  conjecture,  being 


B  Wind  Jflower 


unversed  in  even  the  simplest  forms  of  sacra- 
mental observance. 

Once  or  twice  in  the -midst  of  her  dreamy 
absorption  the  Quaker  blood  in  the  girl  made 
itself  felt  in  a  quick  protest  against  the  whole 
spectacle  as  an  appeal  to  something  lower  than 
the  spirit,  and  when,  at  the  end,  she  involun- 
tarily knelt  with  the  rest,  a  sudden  sense  of 
compunction  rose  within  her  that  she,  Moses 
Herendean's  daughter,  had  had  part  in  a  scene 
like  this.  In  a  vivid  flash  of  memory  she 
seemed  to  hear  her  father's  voice  at  that 
moment,  speaking  in  sonorous,  rhythmic  ca- 
dence, as  she  had  often  heard  it  in  Friends' 
meeting  :  "  Ephraim  is  joined  to  idols  ;  let 
him  alone." 

As  they  came  out  of  the  church,  Eunice, 
dazed  and  abashed,  following  in  Miss  Bar- 
ringer's  wake,  heard  a  lady  say  to  her  : 

"  Your  rector  is  very  high,  isn't  he  ?  What 
a  perfect  assistant  Mr.  Ripley  makes.  The 
whole  service  was  simply  lovely,  Miss  Bar- 
ringer." 


VIII 

JRS.  LEWIS  survived  the  operation, 
but  lay  for  days  between  life  and 
death.  At  such  a  crisis  the  patient 
could  not  be  left  to  the  accidental,  neighborly 
order  of  nursing  common  to  South  Whippany, 
and  Mary  Herendean  remained  in  the  poor 
tenement  house  most  of  the  time  through  the 
early  part  of  the  week. 

Eunice  now  became  her  father's  attendant 
of  necessity,  and  she  filled  the  position  in  a 
manner  sufficiently  sweet  and  engaging. 
Moses  Herendean,  to  be  sure,  missed  sundry 
small  attentions  and  he  did  not  find  that  the 
memoir  of  Isaac  Foster  was  moving  on  at 
quite  the  rate  of  progress  which  it  attained 
under  Mary's  care.  But  the  people  on  the 
veranda,  to  which  the  old  gentleman  had  now 
returned,  observed  that  these  two  never  failed 
to  make  a  charming  tableau.  They  were  re- 
minded of  John  Milton  and  his  daughters,  of 
CEdipus  and  Antigone,  and  of  various  other 
classic  groups,  as  they  watched  the  fine  old 
man  with  his  younger  daughter. 

"  Everything  that  girl  does  is  picturesque," 
53 


B  Win&  fflower 

commented  Mrs.  Mather  to  a  Boston  school 
teacher,  Miss  Arnold,  who  had  been  at  Whip- 
pany  for  several  summers.  The  hotel  was 
quite  deserted  that  morning,  a  large  party 
having  left  for  an  all-day  excursion  down  the 
valley. 

"Yes,  and  she  knows  it  too,"  rejoined  Miss 
Arnold,  who  was  given  to  sharp  and  incisive 
rejoinder.  "  Her  sister  devotes  every  hour  of 
her  life  to  that  old  man  or  to  some  other 
needy  being,  and  none  of  you  goes  into  rap- 
tures over  her.  This  girl  will  do  very  well  for 
dress  parade,  but  when  it  comes  to  the  real 
tug  of  war  you  will  find  that  Mary  Herendean 
will  be  called  for. ' ' 

"That  is  quite  natural  of  course,"  replied 
Mrs.  Mather;  "she  is  older,  and  has  had 
more  responsibility.  I  am  sure  she  is  a  very 
fine  girl ;  but  there  is  something  so  pettable, 
don't  you  know? — so  cunning — about  this 
younger  one,  with  her  great  eyes  and  her 
demure  little  ways,  that  you  can't  help  enjoy- 
ing her." 

"Give  me  Mary,"  quoth  Miss  Arnold 
briefly. 

Eunice    Herendean   had  become  suddenly 

popular   with   what    Miss   Arnold   called   the 

"extreme  right,"  since  Sunday.      Miss  Arnold 

was  a  low-church  woman,  and  had  her  opinion 

54 


B  lUinJ)  flower 

of  the  high  ritualists.  It  was  the  accident  of 
knowing  each  other  in  Boston,  rather  than  any 
inner  congeniality,  which  brought  her  and  Mrs. 
Mather  together. 

It  was  Wednesday  morning  when  these  com- 
ments were  made.  Eunice  was  reading  aloud 
to  her  father  with  all  gravity,  but  with  languid 
interest,  certain  passages  from  "Barclay's 
Apology."  Lifting  her  eyes,  she  saw  Father 
Norman  approaching.  She  had  not  spoken 
with  him  since  Sunday. 

He  addressed  Moses  Herendean  in  kindly 
greeting,  and  the  old  man  held  his  hand  a 
moment  in  his  cold,  delicate  fingers,  looking 
up  with  kindly,  musing  scrutiny. 

"Let   me   see,"    he   said,    "thy  name   is 


"Francis  Norman,"  was  the  quick  response, 
and  Eunice  noted  the  bright,  unconstrained 
smile  which  lighted  up  the  clergyman's  face. 
'  '  I  am  almost  a  neighbor  of  yours,  Mr.  Her- 
endean ;  that  is,  I  am  from  Coalport,  and  I 
have  known  of  your  family  for  years." 

"Not  Mr.  Herendean,  if  thee  pleases," 
said  the  old  man  gently  ;  '  '  simply  Moses 
Herendean  is  what  I  wish  to  be  called." 

"  Pardon  me,  I  should  have  remembered," 
replied  the  other. 

"Eunice  has  been  telling  me  something  of 
55 


a  TOUnD  flower 

thee,  Francis  Norman,"  continued  the  Frierid, 
bowing  a  quiet  acknowledgment.  "I  under- 
stand that  thee  preaches  in  the  stone  meeting- 
house on  Minster  Street ;  was  thy  father  Ed- 
ward Norman,  the  lawyer?" 

It  was  to  be  noticed  that  while  his  daughters 
used  the  "plain  language  "  only  in  their  own 
family,  Moses  Herendean  used  it  to  all  alike. 

After  a  reply  in  the  affirmative,  Francis 
Norman  proposed  that  they  should  take  a 
short  walk  together  and  discuss  the  points  of 
family  history  which  were  of  common  interest. 
Moses  Herendean  rose  with  a  word  of  apology 
for  his  halting  gait,  evidently  gratified  with  the 
attentive  courtesy  of  his  new  acquaintance. 

Eunice,  with  a  long  breath  of  relief,  dropped 
the  dull,  black-bound  book,  and  watched  the 
two  as  they  moved  slowly  across  the  lawn. 

A  singular  resemblance  between  them,  real 
or  fanciful,  struck  her  eye,  and  brought  a  slight 
smile  to  her  lips.  Both  were  tall,  slenderly 
built  men  of  a  certain  elegance  and  grace  of 
mold  ;  both  wore  a  noticeable  garb,  the  coat 
of  peculiar  cut,  the  broad  brimmed  hat,  and 
the  faces  bore  a  subtle  likeness  in  the  peculiar 
stamp  which  a  life  of  contemplation  and  self- 
denial  never  fails  to  give ;  in  both  men  alike 
was  the  quality  of  distinction,  that  of  the  outer 
man  and  that  of  the  inner  spirit. 
56 


Eunice  was  not  the  only  one  to  observe  this 
resemblance. 

"What  a  sight!"  exclaimed  Miss  Arnold. 
"The  conjunction  of  an  orthodox  Friend  and 
a  High  Church  priest !  And  the  intensely 
funny  thing  about  it  is  that,  in  spite  of  the  dif- 
ference of  age  and  all,  they  are  so  much  alike  ! 
Den' t  you  see,  Mrs.  Mather  ?  ' ' 

"  Perhaps  so,"  replied  that  lady  reluctantly, 
' '  although  the  resemblance  seems  to  me  en- 
tirely superficial. ' ' 

• '  I  am  not  sure  but  the  two  views  require 
the  same  habit  of  mind.  Those  who  leave 
Friends  almost  always  run  straight  to  ritualism. 
Both  are  ritualists,  when  you  come  to  think  of 
it,"  proceeded  Miss  Arnold,  nothing  daunted 
by  Mrs.  Mather's  slightly  defensive  air,  "only 
with  one  it  is  a  negative,  with  the  other  a  posi- 
tive formalism." 

"  I  suppose  you  would  naturally  prefer  the 
negative  variety,"  remarked  Mrs.  Mather 
dryly. 

"  Yes,  of  the  two,"  was  the  frank  response. 
' '  Still,  it  is  always  the  positive  side  which  pre- 
vails in  the  world." 


57 


IX 

JN  driving  southward  from  Whippany, 
down  the  lovely  valley  through  which 
the  little  river  ripples  musically,  one 
comes  with  sudden  surprise  upon  a  group  of 
shabby  houses  around  a  small  paper  mill,  built 
upon  the  bank  of  the  stream.  This  is  South 
Whippany.  The  valley  is  still  fair,  the  moun- 
tains are  still  in  sight,  but  just  here  the  purity 
and  beauty  of  both  seem  tarnished  by  the 
squalid  little  settlement.  There  are  untidy 
women  in  the  windows,  untidy  children  play- 
ing in  the  dust  of  the  road,  untidy  washings 
hung  in  the  yards.  A  small  wooden  building 
with  a  cross  at  its  gable  indicates  the  presence 
of  the  Roman  Catholic  church,  and  the  town 
is  not  large  enough  to  tempt  a  second  religious 
body  to  seek  a  foothold. 

It  is  a  place  to  drive  through  quickly  and  to 
forget  at  once,  the  summer  tourist  thinks,  a 
blot  on  the  idyllic  loveliness  of  the  valley. 

Eunice    Herendean   was  approaching    this 
uninviting    scene,    along   the    highroad    from 
Whippany  late  in  the  afternoon,  with  a  small 
bundle  of  linen  for  Mary's  use. 
58 


H  "WHinD  Slower 

There  was  a  quaint  and  moss-grown  stone 
bridge  over  the  river  just  before  one  entered 
South  Whippany,  and  as  Eunice  advanced 
toward  it  she  noticed  that  Father  Norman  was 
seated  on  a  low  wall,  separated  from  the  road 
by  a  tangle  of  blossoming  weeds,  sketching 
this  bridge  in  water  colors. 

He  looked  up  as  she  came  in  sight,  and 
closed  his  sketch  book  hastily. 

"Ah,  Miss  Eunice,"  he  said,  rising  and 
putting  up  his  colors,  "will  you  wait  an 
instant?  I  want  to  ask  you  something  par- 
ticularly. ' ' 

Surprised,  but  not  ill  pleased,  Eunice  waited 
until,  with  a  few  long  strides,  Francis  Norman 
reached  her  side  and  quietly,  as  a  matter  of 
course,  took  her  bundle,  heedless  of  her  pro- 
tests, and  together  they  walked  on  toward  the 
village. 

"I  knew  from  your  father  that  you  would 
be  coming  this  way,"  he  began;  "and  while 
I  was  out  on  a  little  sketching  ramble,  I  kept 
thinking  of  that  poor  woman  he  told  me  about, 
with  whom  your  sister  is  staying,  and  I  felt 
that  I  ought  to  offer  to  go  to  her.  Do  you 
think  she  would  care  to  see  me  ?  ' ' 

Eunice  looked  up  at  him  in  unconcealed 
surprise.  Why  should  poor  Mrs.  Lewis  care 
to  see  Father  Norman  ?  She  could  think  of 
59 


a  1din&  JFlowet 

no  reason.     The  woman  was  quite  too  ill  to 
see  any  one. 

Francis  Norman  hastened  to  explain  further. 

"  I  mean,  you  see,  whether  she  would  desire 
any  service  I  could  render  as  a  clergyman.  I 
would  be  glad  to  offer  prayers,  if  it  would  be 
acceptable  to  her  and  her  family. ' ' 

"Oh,  I  see,"  said  Eunice,  smiling  a  little 
with  unsophisticated  candor  ;  "of  course,  how 
very  dull  I  was.  That  is  very  kind  of  you, 
Mr.  Norman,"  here  she  hesitated,  finding  it 
impossible  to  address  him  as  Miss  Barringer 
did  ;  "  but  really  there  would  not  be  any  need 
of  it.  You  see,  sister  Mary  prays  with  her  all 
the  time,  and  reads  the  Bible,  and  all  that." 

Francis  Norman  smiled  slightly.  Plainly 
Eunice  had  no  conception  of  the  priestly  office. 
It  was  hard  for  him  to  enlighten  her,  and  yet 
he  felt  a  distinct  responsibility  in  this  matter. 
Perhaps  her  sister  would  understand  better. 

They  walked  on  in  silence,  entering  the 
squalid  street. 

"  Mrs.  Lewis  lives  a  little  out  of  the  village 
— on  beyond,"  Eunice  explained. 

Two  dirty,  bare-footed  Irish  boys  were  play- 
ing marbles  in  a  yard. 

"  Look  at  the  priest!"  cried  one  of  them 
with  reckless  derision,  as  Francis  Norman  and 
Eunice  reached  them. 

60 


tflowet 


"Yes,  look  at  them,  Jim,"  chimed  in  the 
other  •  "a  priest  takin'  a  gyurl  out  a  walkin'  ! 
Did  ye  iver  see  the  loike  ?  ' ' 

The  two  had  passed  on  now,  but  not  too  far 
for  the  parting  shot. 

44  Hould  yer  whist,  Larry,  ye  bloomin'  idjit ! 
Don't  ye  see  yon  ain't  no  priest  at  all?  Him- 
silf's  one  o'  them  high-toned  imitations  that 
comes  up  here  summers,"  and  the  rest  was 
lost,  to  the  unspeakable  relief  of  Eunice,  whose 
cheeks  had  become  as  red  as  the  geraniums  in 
the  cottage  window  near  by. 

Francis  Norman  smiled  in  his  own  despite  ; 
these  young  barbarians  had  contrived  in  their 
coarse  wit  to  cover  two  points  of  prime  im- 
portance just  now  in  ecclesiastical  thought. 

Nothing  was  said  until,  as  they  passed  the 
shabby  little  church,  he  put  the  question  : 

44  Mrs.  Lewis  is  not  a  Romanist?  " 

"No,  I  think  she  is  a  Methodist,  but  there 
is  no  Methodist  church  here.  She  lives  there, ' ' 
pointing  to  a  low  white  house  in  a  small  garden, 
absolutely  unshaded,  and  seeming  to  stare  at 
the  sun  as  with  bare,  lidless  eyes. 

4 '  And  your  sister  has  been  here  every  day 
since  Sunday  ? ' '  Francis  Norman  exclaimed,  as 
he  passed  through  the  low  gate  after  Eunice. 

4<  I  don't  see  how  she  can  endure  the  heat," 
murmured  Eunice. 

61 


ICUno  flower 


Morning  glories  grew  over  the  front  windows 
of  the  cottage,  trained  to  climb  on  cords,  but 
the  blossoms  at  this  hour  hung  limp  and 
withered.  The  scarlet  bean  flowers  and  motley 
portulaccas  bordering  the  path  seemed  to  scin- 
tillate in  the  heat.  A  small  child  in  a  clean 
pinafore  sat  on  the  step,  eating  a  piece  of 
bread. 

"I  don't  think  I  will  go  in,"  said  Eunice, 
who  began  to  find  some  little  embarrassment 
in  the  situation.  "Geraldine,  dear,  you  run 
in  and  ask  my  sister  to  come  to  the  door  a 
minute." 

The  child  stared  at  her  steadily  for  a  moment 
and  then  obeyed.  In  a  moment  more  Mary 
Herendean  came  to  the  door,  the  small  Geral- 
dine  running  after  her.  She  wore  a  brown  and 
white  cotton  dress,  without  the  becoming 
touches  of  the  nurse's  linen  adjuncts,  but 
there  was  beauty  in  the  exquisite  neatness  of 
her  dress  and  person.  Her  eyes  seemed  to 
have  grown  large  and  dark,  and  Francis  Nor- 
man was  touched  by  the  unconscious  weariness 
in  them.  Her  manner,  however,  was  cheerful, 
and  she  concealed  her  keen  surprise  at  seeing 
the  rector  of  St.  Cuthbert's  in  her  sister's  com- 
pany. 

As  soon  as  he  could  do  so  he  made  haste  to 
approach  Mary. 

62 


a  TlEUn&  flower 

'•Possibly,  Miss  Herendean,  you  do  not 
understand  my  presence  here,"  he  said  in  a 
low  voice.  "I  have  come  in  my  Master's 
name.  Your  sister  could  hardly  tell  me 
whether  this  poor  woman,  in  her  critical  state, 
would  care  for  the  consolations  of  the  Church. 
For  prayer  and  for  the  blessed  sacrament,  I 
mean,"  he  added  succinctly. 

Mary  Herendean  looked  for  the  second  time 
fully  into  this  man's  eyes,  and  she  saw  truth 
and  high  purpose  in  them,  albeit  a  world's 
width  lay  between  his  point  of  view  and  hers. 
A  spiritual  light  touched  her  tired  face  to  sud- 
den beauty. 

"I  thank  you,"  she  said  very  gently  and 
with  the  utmost  simplicity,  "our  Lord  himself 
is  with  her.  Is  not  that  enough  ?  " 

Francis  Norman  stepped  down  upon  the 
narrow  path  between  the  giddy  portulaccas, 
lifting  his  hat  as  he  did  so.  He  had  done  his 
duty,  but  the  world's  width  lay  between  them 
still. 

"It  was  kind  of  you  to  come,"  Mary  Heren- 
dean said  ;  "when  she  is  better  I  think  Mrs. 
Lewis  would  be  glad  to  see  you." 

This  was  all.     They  came  away  after  a  brief, 

but  affectionate  good-bye  between  the  sisters, 

Francis  Norman  reflecting  with  a  little  inner 

heat  that  Mary  Herendean  was  not  just  the 

63 


"WflinD  fflowcr 


sort  of  woman  one  would  choose  to  rebuke  for 
ill  temper ;  even  if,  from  the  churchman's  point 
of  view,  her  religion  were  composed  of  all  false 
doctrine,  heresy,  and  schism,  it  seemed  to  have 
produced  in  her  a  type  of  womanhood  little 
lower  than  the  angels — singularly  like  a  tired 
angel  she  looked,  he  fancied,  as  they  left  her 
standing  under  the  limp  morning  glories. 

They  crossed  the  bridge  together  and  here 
Francis  Norman  asked  if  Eunice  would  allow 
him  the  privilege  of  walking  back  to  the  Inn 
with  her.  She  assented  with  shy  pleasure,  and 
a  sense  of  being  notably  honored,  although 
how  unique  and  how  envied  such  an  honor 
might  be  she  had  thus  far  but  the  faintest 
notion. 

It  was  nearly  sunset  now,  and  the  shadows 
were  long  across  the  little  valley,  while  the 
mountains  before  them  loomed  large  and  mys- 
terious in  deepest  tints  of  violet.  The  air  grew 
cool  and  sweet,  and  a  sense  of  peace  fell  upon 
the  scene  and  upon  the  hearts  of  these  two, 
so  strange  and  unknown  to  one  another  by 
reason  of  external  distinctions,  and  yet  beneath 
the  surface  simply  man  and  woman,  as  from 
the  beginning,  with  the  primal  powers  and 
passions  of  their  kind. 

They  walked  on  for  a  time  in  silence. 
There  was  a  stirring  within  him  which  Francis 
64 


B  TffiUnJ)  Slower 

Norman  knew  to  be  out  of  harmony  with  the 
Counsels  of  Perfection  which  he  had  been  con- 
templating of  late.  Eunice  felt  his  look  resting 
upon  her  and  bent  to  pick  a  belated  wild  rose 
near  the  path,  to  hide  the  conscious  color 
which  she  knew  was  rising  to  her  cheek. 

' '  Oh,  I  wish  I  was  wise  and  clever, ' '  she 
said  with  a  plaintive  sigh,  catching  at  the  first 
thought  which  strayed  through  her  vague  con- 
fusion, "  because  then  I  could  understand 
about  so  many  things. ' ' 

'•What  would  you  like  to  understand?" 
asked  Norman. 

Greatly  to  his  surprise,  she  turned  toward 
him,  and  raising  her  beautiful  eyes  fully  to  his 
face,  asked  with  profound  seriousness  : 

' '  Are  you  a  priest  ?  ' ' 

"Yes,  truly,  that  is  my  privilege." 

"Oh,  dear,"  she  said  naively,  "you  really 
are  !  I  should  think  you  would  so  much 
rather  be  just  a  man."  And  she  glanced  up 
at  him,  half  frightened  at  her  impulsive  utter- 
ance. 

"  But  would  you  not  think  it  a  blessed  thing, 
weak  and  unworthy  though  I  am  of  myself,  to 
be  made  by  the  grace  of  God  the  very  best  and 
highest  thing  that  a  man  can  be,  the  nearest 
to  God?"  and  Francis  Norman's  voice  had 
the  peculiar  quality  as  he  said  these  words 
K  65 


a  IGUnD  fflowet 

which  had  awed  Eunice  so  sensibly  in  the 
church  service. 

"  Does  it  bring  you  nearer  to  God?"  she 
asked  solemnly. 

"If  it  does  not  a  woe  is  upon  me,"  was  the 
answer.  And  profound  feeling  darkened  his 
face.  After  a  pause,  he  asked  : 

"Does  it  seem  nothing  to  you,  my  little 
Friend,  to  be  in  the  direct  line  of  descent  from 
the  holy  apostles,  who  received  their  glorious 
commission  from  the  very  breath  of  our  divine 
Lord?" 

Eunice  shook  her  head  humbly. 

' '  I  am  afraid  that  I  am  very  ignorant.  We 
have  only  been  taught  the  things  which  Friends 
believe.  We  have  no  priests  and  no  sacraments, 
nor  altars,  nor  anything,"  she  added  dejectedly, 
and  with  an  irresistible  little  moue,  as  if  she  had 
been  abused  and  neglected.  Then  with  sudden 
earnestness  she  exclaimed  :  "I  wish  you  would 
tell  me  all  about  your  church.  I  liked  the  service 
very  well  on  Sunday,  but  I  didn't  know  what 
much  of  it  meant,  and  it  all  seemed  very 
strange. ' ' 

Scarcely  could  a  more  congenial  task  have 
been  thrust  upon  a  clergyman  still  young  and 
not  absolutely  proof  against  the  charm  of 
womankind,  than  was  given  Francis  Norman 
in  this  challenge  from  the  little  Quaker  maiden, 
66 


B  tUinO  Slower 

walking  at  his  side  and  looking  up  at  him  with 
innocent  awe  and  yet  with  the  artless  fearless- 
ness of  a  child.  He  addressed  himself  to  the 
effort  with  all  seriousness,  finding  a  receptive 
and  docile  pupil. 

Walking  on,  deeply  absorbed  in  this  highly 
important  and  interesting  consideration,  the 
two  were  suddenly  aware  of  a  sound  of  wheels 
close  behind  them,  and  turned  to  see  the 
mountain  wagon  bringing  back  the  excursion 
party  which  had  left  Whippany  in  the  morning. 
As  the  company  was  composed  almost  exclu- 
sively of  "  the  extreme  right,"  the  whole  wing 
was  in  a  flutter  of  excitement  and  curiosity  as 
the  wagon  drove  on  with  a  passing  greeting, 
leaving  Father  Norman  and  Eunice,  not  in  the 
least  disturbed  or  conscious,  to  continue  their 
conversation. 

"Our  little  dovelike  Quakeress  is  making 
rapid  advances,  isn'  t  she  ? ' '  asked  Mrs.  Bar- 
ringer. 

"How  dreadfully  un-Franciscan  ! "  mur- 
mured Grace  mischievously,  glancing  at  her 
sister,  who  had  been  out  of  spirits  all  day. 

"Without  doubt,  Mrs.  Barringer,"  called 
Miss  Archibald,  lifting  her  crest  and  speaking 
in  her  shrill  voice  from  the  back  seat  which  she 
occupied  with  the  sisters,  ' '  dear  Father  Norman 

is  trying  to  instruct  the  poor,  neglected  little 
67 


B  TKflino  fflower 

thing  in  the  right  way.  I  am  sure  it  would  be 
a  labor  of  love  ! ' ' 

"Oh!  oh!  oh!  Miss  Archibald  !"  cried 
Mr.  Mather,  bursting  into  a  merry  peal  of 
laughter. 

Miss  Archibald  looked  her  perplexity. 

"What  have  I  said  now?"  she  exclaimed. 
"  It  would  be,  wouldn't  it,  Sister  Elizabeth  ?  " 
to  which  the  little  woman  in  black  nodded 
kindly,  but  with  an  irrepressible  smile,  under 
the  shadow  of  her  bonnet. 

"I  won't  stand  any  joking  about  Father 
Norman,"  said  Tom  Ripley  stoutly  ;  "  he  is  a 
saint,  if  he  did  disappoint  us  to-day." 

"Stand  up  for  your  idol,  Tom,"  said  Grace 
Barringer.  Her  sister  had  not  spoken. 


68 


NORMAN,  unlike  many 
extreme  ritualists,  was  born  and 
bred  in  the  communion  of  the  Epis- 
copal Church.  He  had,  however,  no  leaning 
toward  the  ministry  through  his  youth,  and  at 
the  time  of  leaving  Harvard  was  deeply  inter- 
ested in  the  study  of  art,  and,  having  sufficient 
leisure  and  means  to  try  experiments,  went 
abroad  for  a  time  with  the  intention  of  learn- 
ing to  paint.  His  temperament  was  that 
of  the  artist,  combined  with  the  mystic ; 
dreamy,  introverted,  highly  susceptible  to 
beauty  ;  his  intellect  was  subtle,  his  imagina- 
tion quick  and  delicate,  his  spiritual  nature 
capable  of  much  exaltation. 

Up  to  this  time,  however,  Norman  had  ac- 
cepted his  inherited  faith  somewhat  as  he 
accepted  the  habits  of  speech  and  dress  com- 
mon to  gentlemen,  as  a  matter  of  course.  He 
was  inclined  through  his  college  days  and 
for  a  time  after  them,  to  distinctly  broad 
church  views,  where  he  had  formulated  views 
of  any  sort. 

Finding  himself  strongly  drawn  by  taste  and 
69 


B  TUHinO  flower 

certain  influences  which  surrounded  him  in 
Germany  to  the  study  of  medieval  art,  he 
soon  developed  a  sympathy  with  the  English 
preraphaelite  awakening  of  a  preceding  gen- 
eration, and  returned  to  England  to  throw 
himself  with  ardor  into  the  study  of  the  mysti- 
cal symbolism  and  romanticism  of  Rossetti 
and  his  followers.  Going  to  Oxford  for  a  few 
months  of  study,  he  fell  beneath  the  spell  of 
its  potent  charm,  and  lived  for  a  season  apart 
from  the  bustle  and  clash  of  the  modern 
world,  sunk  in  poetic,  meditative  inactivity, 
despising  the  present,  adoring  the  past. 

In  this  mood  he  was  met,  and  out  of  it  he  was 
called  in  a  partial  sense,  by  the  spirit  of  a  man 
whose  name,  though  it  belonged  to  an  earlier 
time,  could  never  lose  its  power  in  Oxford — 
that  of  John  Henry  Newman. 

Francis  Norman's  instinct  for  religion,  dor- 
mant through  many  years,  sprang  into  life 
under  the  touch  of  that  genius  of  whom  it  will 
be  ever  said,  that  "  his  mind  was  a  miracle  of 
intellectual  delicacy,  and  his  presence  that  of 
a  spiritual  apparition."  It  would  have  mat- 
tered little  to  the  young  man  just  then, 
whether  the  spirit  of  Newman  had  led  his 
own  all  the  way,  even  into  the  church  of 
Rome  ;  but  this,  through  some  inherited  re- 
serve, chanced  not  to  follow.  Norman  simply 
70 


H  IKttino  fflowet 

accepted  the  English  cardinal  as  his  ideal  of 
the  Christian  saint  and  hero,  and  passed  from 
his  dreams  of  medieval  art  to  a  dream  of 
medieval  religion.  Into  this  new  cult  of  the 
Catholic  revival,  he  threw  himself  with  sincere 
enthusiasm  ;  but,  little  as  he  realized  it,  his 
point  of  view  was  what  it  had  been  before, 
that  of  the  artist,  the  poet,  and  the  dreamer, 
taken  captive  by  the  manifestation  of  a  more 
exalted  and  more  mystic  symbolism. 

After  a  period  in  Oxford,  he  returned  to  his 
native  land  and  received  the  successive  rites 
of  ordination  in  his  inherited  communion. 

His  earlier  freedom  and  breadth  of  view  and 
opinion  he  put  voluntarily  away,  and  bent  his 
intellect  by  force  to  the  yoke  of  a  high  sacra- 
mental and  sacerdotal  theory  of  the  church. 
If  the  yoke  were  sometimes  too  heavy  to  be 
borne  ;  if  the  foundation  of  faith  settled  now 
and  again  under  the  weight  of  the  superstruc- 
ture ;  if  the  pure  flame  of  a  spiritual  love  and 
life  were  well-nigh  smothered  under  the 
material  fuel  heaped  upon  it,  which  it  could 
not  kindle  into  flame  ;  there  was  always  the 
refuge  of  more  rigorous  self-discipline,  of  the 
Church's  authority,  not  absolute,  as  in  the 
papacy,  but  sufficient,  and  of  Newman's  sen- 
tence, "Ten  thousand  difficulties  do  not 
make  one  doubt." 


21  TIDltnO  fflowet 

In  process  of  time  the  stamp  of  the  free- 
dom and  self-direction  of  his  younger  manhood 
had  left  his  face,  and  its  habitual  expression 
had  come  to  be  the  guarded  watchfulness  of 
the  priest,  deeply  tinged  with  melancholy 
abstraction. 

For  Francis  Norman  had  not  fought  all  his 
way  through  yet,  and  he  was  realizing  by  inner 
and  strenuous  processes  that 

Where  we  look  for  crowns  to  fall 
We  find  the  tug's  to  come. 

When  he  reached  his  room  at  the  Inn  that 
night  he  was  aware  that  an  hour  of  decision 
was  upon  him.  His  conception  of  his  priestly 
office,  while  not  absolutely  involving  the  notion 
of  celibacy,  still  clung  to  this  as  its  ideal.  ' '  He 
that  warreth  entangleth  himself  not  in  the  af- 
fairs of  this  life,"  he  would  have  said;  his 
ideal  priest  was  the  soldier-saint,  stern  to  him- 
self, gentle  to  others  ;  ascetic,  lifted  above  per- 
sonal and  domestic  concerns,  leading  a  dedi- 
cated life,  apart  from  other  men.  The  broad 
fleer  of  the  street  urchin,  "a  priest  walking 
out  with  a  girl,"  remained  unforgotten  in  his 
mind,  and  showed  him  that  beneath  all  the 
outward  justification  of  his  action  there  had 
lain  a  violation  of  his  ideal. 

It  was  not  that  for  a  moment  his  thought 
72 


H  TUatnO  fflowet 

had  leaped  to  the  extreme  of  desiring  Eunice 
Herendean  as  his  wife,  but  that,  for  the  first 
time  in  these  years  since  he  had  taken  holy 
orders,  a  woman's  eyes  and  voice  had  had 
power  to  disturb  him.  There  lay  an  unreason- 
able but  dangerous  enchantment  to  him  in  this 
child,  with  her  quiet  ways  and  nunlike  purity  ; 
she  seemed  to  him  so  simple,  so  other-worldly, 
so  altogether  endearing  in  her  naive  wonder 
and  desire  for  what  lay  beyond  her  ken.  Who 
could  tell  what  might  befall  him  if  he  lingered 
over-long,  as  he  was  tempted  to  do,  where  he 
could  teach  and  train  her  aroused  intelligence, 
and  open  to  her  the  glories  and  mysteries  of  the 
Church  ? 

Did  he  dare  take  the  risk?  Should  he  go 
and  escape,  or  ''stay  and  be  beaten"  ?  he 
debated  with  himself  all  night,  recalling  idly  the 
old  Winchester  college  motto.  Doubtless  the 
bravest  and  best  thing  would  be  to  stand  his 
ground  and  conquer  ;  but  a  certain  misgiving 
that,  even  if  he  were  able  to  do  this,  he  might 
run  a  chance  of  seeming  to  take  advantage  of 
the  situation  for  proselyting  purposes,  turned 
the  scale.  Before  morning  his  decision  was 
formed,  and  it  was  carried  out  with  a  prompt- 
ness characteristic  of  Francis  Norman. 

A  few  moments  sufficed  for  his  preparation 
for  immediate  departure  ;  he  left  with  Tom 
73 


21  MlnO  fflower 

Ripley  his  adieux  to  the  little  circle  of  friends, 
his  explanation  of  pressing  work,  and,  further, 
a  small  package  of  church  tracts,  which  were 
to  be  handed  to  Eunice  Herendean,  with  the 
suggestion  that  she  should  seek  her  father's 
sanction  before  reading  them. 

At  five  oclock  in  the  morning  he  was  ready 
to  leave,  as  by  walking  down  the  valley  to  the 
nearest  railway  junction  he  could  connect  with 
an  express  train  and  reach  Coalport  that  night. 

It  was  a  breathless,  sultry  morning,  the  val- 
ley lying  muffled  in  white,  wool-like  mist. 
Coming  out  on  the  veranda,  Norman  passed  a 
chair  on  which  lay  a  big,  black  book,  and  a 
little,  soft,  brown  shawl,  the  one  which  Eunice 
Herendean  often  wore  and  which  she  had  left 
there,  evidently,  the  night  before.  Well  as 
he  held  himself  in  control,  Francis  Norman's 
hand  involuntarily  was  laid  for  a  moment  upon 
the  soft  brown  folds  with  a  lingering  gesture, 
endlessly  expressive.  It  was  the  only  good-bye 
he  would  allow  himself,  but  it  was  a  lover's 
touch.  A  woman  was  coming  up  the  steps,  out 
of  the  mist,  who  saw  the  gesture  and  grew  a 
shade  paler  as  she  saw  it,  while  a  startled  ques- 
tion leaped  for  the  first  time  into  her  mind. 
It  was  Mary  Herendean,  wan  and  spent  with 
watching,  groping  her  lonely  way  home  to 
rest. 

74 


a  "Mink  Slower 

Francis  Norman  greeted  her  with  kindly 
sympathy  and  asked  for  her  patient. 

"  She  is  better.  She  will  do  well  now,  thank 
you,"  Mary  answered  and  went  her  way  into 
the  house.  He  did  not  detain  her  to  say 
good-bye. 

A  few  hours  later  Eunice  sat  alone  on  the 
veranda,  reading  a  letter  which  had  just  been 
handed  her ;  the  envelope  in  her  lap  was 
postmarked  New  York,  and  was  addressed  in 
strongly  marked  masculine  handwriting.  Be- 
side it,  on  her  knee,  lay  a  little  package  of  tracts 
which  Tom  Ripley  had  given  her  half  an  hour 
before.  Eunice  read  on  with  quickened  color 
and  eager  eyes.  Then,  folding  the  letter,  she 
paused  a  moment  to  note  with  a  smile  the 
contrast  between  the  style  of  its  address  and 
that  of  her  name  written  on  the  tracts  in 
Father  Norman's  fine,  firm  hand. 

"It  is  as  well,"  she  reflected  as  she  slipped 
both  letter  and  tracts  into  her  work  bag,  "  that 
father  and  Mary  should  not  see  either  of  these 
just  now.  It  would  only  make  bother.  Poor 
Mary,  it  would  be  a  sin  to  worry  her  about 
this  letter  when  she  is  so  tired,  and  if  I  don' t 
answer  it  there  will  be  no  harm  done.  Those 
tracts  I  don't  believe  I  shall  ever  read,  anyway  ; 
they  look  as  stupid  as  '  Barclay' s  Apology, ' 
and  have  such  long  words.  I  can  get  Sister 
75 


H  "OCUnO  flower 

Elizabeth  to  tell  me  all  about  the  church.  She 
knows  what  every  last  fringe  and  wrinkle  mean. 
She  is  a  dear  old  thing  too,  when  you  get  over 
being  afraid  of  her. ' ' 


XI 

JOALPORT,  the  great,  roaring,  smok- 
ing, commercial  city,  black  and  grim 
in  its  center,  and  ghastly  in  the 
squalor  of  some  of  its  outlying  mining  settle- 
ments, has  yet  its  broad  modern  avenues  with 
smooth  lawns  and  fine  houses,  where  the  noise 
of  the  city  dies  away,  and  where  the  soot-laden 
srnoke  ceases  to  defile. 

Such  an  avenue  is  intersected  by  a  quiet 
street  much  older  than  itself  at  a  distance  of  two 
miles  from  the  heart  of  the  city,  called  Willow 
Street,  notable  for  neither  beauty  nor  elegance 
in  its  dwellings  nor  social  prestige  among  its 
indwellers,  an  old  street  relative  to  Coalport's 
rapid  growth,  a  country  road  not  so  very  long 
ago. 

Here  at  the  corner  of  a  lane,  which  would  be 
a  green  lane  in  summer,  but  is  a  white  one  now, 
for  winter  is  well  advanced  and  snow  is  on  the 
ground,  stands  and  has  stood  for  fifty  years,  the 
dwelling  of  Moses  Herendean,  a  square,  brick 
house  in  a  square,  terraced  garden.  The  gar- 
den is  enclosed  by  a  broad,  brick  wall,  sur- 
mounted by  an  iron  railing  ;  the  wall,  low  in 
77 


Slower 


front,  rises  in  successive  stages  of  gradation  as 
it  extends  up  the  lane,  until  as  you  lose  sight 
of  it,  it  has  become  higher  than  a  man's  head, 
and  a  narrow  green  door  in  the  brick  wall,  tightly 
closed  at  this  season,  gives  access  to  the  with- 
ered rose  garden. 

The  house  in  front  has  a  tall,  white-pillared 
portico,  on  either  side  of  which  it  swells  slightly 
and  presents  a  shining  array  of  windows.  The 
roof  is  battlemented,  and  across  the  front 
stretches  a  white  railing,  interrupted  over  the 
portico  by  a  dormer  window.  The  red  un- 
painted  brick,  of  which  the  house  is  built,  is 
weatherworn  to  a  dull  but  not  unpleasant  hue, 
and  the  whole  aspect  of  the  place,  particularly 
at  this  frozen  season,  is  of  well-ordered,  com- 
fortable stiffness,  offering  at  no  nook  or  corner 
the  slightest  challenge  to  attention  or  remark 
save  for  its  all-pervading,  shining  cleanliness. 

Within,  the  house  comported  not  less  with 
Quaker  traditions,  being  severely  simple,  but 
unostentatiously  aristocratic.  There  was  hand- 
some, solid  woodwork,  but  there  were  no  hang- 
ings ;  costly  India  mattings,  and  a  few  rugs  but 
rare  ones,  massive  mahogany  furniture  and 
gleaming  brasses,  carpets  of  cold,  low  tones,  and 
bygone  patterns.  Steel  engravings  of  George 
Fox  and  William  Penn  hung  above  a  long  hair- 
cloth sofa  in  the  hall,  but  there  were  few  other 
78 


TOflinD  flower 


pictures.  The  great  sideboard  in  the  dining 
room  was  almost  large  enough  for  a  modern 
summer  cottage,  and  bore  a  brave  array  of  old 
silver ;  there  was  much  exquisite  china  also, 
and  both  had  been  handed  down  through  gen- 
erations of  wealthy  Friends.  In  the  long  parlor 
were  tables  and  chairs  of  teak-wood  and  ebony, 
curiously  carved,  delicate  Chinese  ivories  and 
rare  porcelains,  for  Mary  Herendean's  mother 
belonged  to  a  New  Bedford  family  of  ship- 
owners, who  brought  their  treasures  from  afar. 

There  was  a  cozy  morning  room  beyond 
the  parlor,  opening  by  a  casement  window 
upon  a  broad  back  veranda,  and  here  were 
Mary  Herendean's  busy  desk  and  little  wom- 
anish rocking-chairs  and  work  tables.  The 
library  was  a  somewhat  sombre  room,  with  a 
faded  carpet  in  large  parallelograms  of  brown 
and  green,  and  dark,  ponderous  bookcases. 
Here,  on  a  Sunday  morning,  early  in  Janu- 
ary, Moses  Herendean  was  sitting  in  a  great 
leather  chair  before  a  red  cannel-coal  fire, 
reading  the  "Friends'  Review,"  and  looking 
much  as  when  we  saw  him  last  at  the  Whip- 
pany  Inn. 

Upstairs,  from  the  broad  hall  with  its  fan- 
window  above  the  front  door,  opened  quiet, 
orderly  chambers,  innocent  of  superfluous 
decoration  and  ornament,  but  producing  a 
79 


a  1«ainJ>  Slower 

peculiar  sensation  of  rest  and  soothing  in  their 
spacious  proportions  and  spotless  daintiness. 
In  one  such  room  was  Mary  Herendean  mov- 
ing about,  preparing  for  meeting,  for  it  was 
half-past  ten  by  her  little  mantel  clock,  and  she 
could  see  from  her  side  window  that  Simeon,  a 
Friend  of  low  degree  and  the  venerable  man- 
servant of  the  house,  was  leading  out  the  old 
family  horse.  On  the  gravel  before  the  stable 
stood  a  closed  carriage  of  antique  mold,  bear- 
ing a  singular  semblance  to  a  black  beetle  in 
its  outline,  and  furnished  with  faded  green  silk 
curtains  at  the  windows. 

Mary  Herendean  crossed  to  her  dressing 
table  and  shook  down  her  long,  fair  hair,  wh;ch 
fell  over  her  white  neglige  like  a  mantle.  She 
had  a  figure  of  Juno-like  queenliness,  and  as 
she  stood  brushing  and  gathering  up  her  hair 
the  mass  of  it  coiled  around  one  bare  uplifted 
arm  and  glinted  in  the  winter  sunshine  like  a 
sheath  of  gold.  A  door  at  that  moment  open- 
ing into  the  adjoining  bedroom,  Eunice  Her- 
endean was  heard  to  exclaim  : 

"Oh,  Mary,  if  thee  would  only  go  to  parties 
and  wear  evening  dress  !  It  is  a  shame  to  hide 
such  a  neck  and  arms  ;  they  ought  to  win  an 
English  lord  for  thee  at  the  very  least !  " 

Mary's  cheeks  flushed,  but  she  made  no  di- 
rect reply  to  her  sister's  outbreak,  but  seeing 
So 


B  WinO  Slower 


her  fully  equipped  for  the  street,  said  with  ill- 
concealed  anxiety : 

"  Thee  is  ready  in  good  season,  Eunice.  Do 
I  need  to  hurry  ?  ' ' 

"Oh,  no,  not  at  all,"  returned  the  younger 
girl,  fastening  her  glove  with  nervous  haste  ;  "  1 
am  not  going  to  meeting  this  morning.  Don't 
make  a  fuss  about  it,  Mary  ;  it  is  enough  to 
have  father  looking  at  me  as  he  does.  Now 
be  a  dear,  and  tell  me  if  I  look  nice  in  my  new 
gown. ' ' 

Eunice  wore  a  street  costume  of  soft  gray 
cloth  of  finest  texture,  which  bore  the  unmis- 
takable stamp  of  an  accomplished  and  fashion- 
able dressmaker.  It  was  a  color  which  threw 
into  striking  relief  the  clear,  pale  tint  of  her 
skin.  The  severity  of  outline  which,  despite 
her  inexperience  of  fine  clothes,  Eunice  had 
insisted  upon  with  a  perception  little  short  of 
genius,  served  to  enhance  her  pliant  grace  and 
virginal  slenderness,  and  to  preserve  in  her  the 
quaint  charm  of  the  Quaker  maiden.  None 
the  less,  the  soft  fur  at  the  throat,  the  plumes 
resting  on  the  dark  waves  of  her  hair,  the  long- 
coveted  rustle  of  silken  linings,  invisible,  save 
for  a  suspicion  of  faint  pink  around  the  dainty 
ankles  as  she  turned  and  twisted  before  her 
sister,  must  have  told  unmistakably  of  luxury 
and  careful  design  to  the  initiated.  Both  the 
F  81 


B  TlCUno  flower 


sisters  knew  perfectly  that  Eunice  had  spent 
on  her  present  costume  more  money  than 
either  of  them  had  ever  used  in  dress  in  any 
year  of  her  life  hitherto. 

"Thee  looks  very  lovely,  dear,"  Mary  said 
with  a  yearning  tenderness  of  appeal  in  her 
eyes  which  Eunice  made  haste  to  evade  by 
turning  back  to  her  room  for  a  handkerchief, 
and  murmuring  that  she  would  have  to  hurry 
now.  She  ran  lightly  downstairs  hoping  to 
escape  an  encounter  with  her  father ;  but 
Moses  Herendean  had  laid  aside  his  review 
and  come  out  into  the  hall  where  he  was  in 
the  act  of  taking  down  his  broad-brimmed  hat 
from  its  peg  on  the  tall  rack.  Holding  it  out 
to  Eunice,  he  asked,  smiling  : 

"Tell  me,  child,  is  that  my  First-day  hat  or 
not?  In  this  light  it  looks  much  like  the 
other." 

"Yes,  that  is  right,  father,"  Eunice  said, 
patting  his  arm  fondly,  and  moving  on  toward 
the  door. 

"The  carriage  is  not  here  yet,"  her  father 
said.  "Thee  need  not  hasten.  What  a  nice 
gray  gown  my  little  girl  has  on.  Did  thee 
make  it  thyself,  Eunice  ?  It  seems  to  fit  very 
smoothly  and  makes  thee  look  very  nice. ' ' 

"Not  exactly,  father,"  Eunice  said,  biting 

her  lip  to  conceal  a  smile. 
82 


B  WinO  flower 


"Well,  whoever  made  it,  plain  things  are 
best,  my  child,  and  most  becoming  to  the  eye 
which  looks  from  a  single  mind.  Simplicity  is 
the  greatest  charm  of  a  young  woman  like  thee, 
and  I  am  glad  to  see  that  thee  has  a  disposition 
to  preserve  it." 

Eunice  had  her  hand  on  the  great  brass 
knob  of  the  front  door,  and  was  fluttering  un- 
easily in  her  impatience  to  be  gone.  Her 
father's  brow  clouded  suddenly  as  he  watched 
her,  and  he  asked  in  an  altered  tone  : 

"Thee  is  not  going  to  have  part  in  those 
foolish  Popish  practices  in  Minster  Street  again 
to-day,  my  child  ?  not  going  to  leave  thy  old 
father  when  he  wants  thee  most,  in  the  secret 
place  of  the  sanctuary,  under  the  covering  of 
the  Divine  Presence  ?  ' ' 

"I  think  I  will  go  to  St.  Cuthbert's  this 
morning,  father,  please,"  said  Eunice  gently. 

The  old  man's  lips  trembled  visibly,  but  he 
remained  gravely  silent,  his  head  slightly  bent. 
Eunice  came  back,  stood  up  on  her  tiptoes 
and  lifting  her  pretty  mouth,  kissed  him  coax- 
ingly. 

"Never  mind,  father  dear,"  she  whispered 
with  soft  persistence,  as  if  she  were  soothing 
him  for  the  delinquencies  of  some  other  per- 
son, "all  the  young  Friends  are  going  to  Epis- 
copal churches  lately.  Thee  mustn't  mind. 
83 


a  Idtnfc  fflowet 

The  Longstreth  girls  have  joined  St.  Peter's, 
and  the  Motts  are  going  to.  Please  don't 
worry,"  and  without  waiting  for  further  argu- 
ment, she  left  him  with  another  kiss,  stepped 
lightly  to  the  door,  and  once  outside,  she  closed 
it  noiselessly  but  firmly  behind  her,  and  sped 
down  the  gravel  walk  to  the  street. 

When  in  the  preceding  September  Moses 
Herendean  returned  with  his  daughters  to 
their  home  in  Coalport,  Eunice  had  looked 
about  her  upon  familiar  names  and  things 
with  newly  awakened  eyes. 

She  had  been  keenly  impressed  with  the  dis- 
tinction and  elegance  of  the  Barringers  and 
their  kind,  and  with  the  dominating  personality 
of  Father  Norman,  as  she  had  seen  them  at 
Whippany,  detached  from  their  proper  setting 
and  standing  simply  upon  their  evident  claims. 
When  she  reached  home  she  discovered  for 
the  first  time  what  these  people  really  stood 
for,  for  their  world  had  hitherto  lain  far  from 
her  own  ;  Mrs.  Barringer  and  her  daughters, 
she  found,  were  leaders  of  the  most  exclusive 
"set"  of  fashionable  people  in  Coalport;  St. 
Cuthbert's  was  a  highly  aristocratic  church, 
and  Father  Norman  was  the  object  of  a  species 
of  hero-worship  which  ruled  the  hour  in  fash- 
ionable circles,  in  part  probably  because  he 
persistently  avoided  society. 
84  ' 


B  mind  flower 

The  slight  attention  which  Eunice  had  re- 
ceived from  the  Barringer  party,  and  the  dis- 
tinct interest  which  Father  Norman  had  mani- 
fested in  her  at  Whippany,  now  took  on  a  new 
significance  and  value  in  her  own  mind. 

The  exclusiveness  which  repelled  Mary  Her- 
endean  as  the  sign  of  a  narrow,  selfish,  and 
anti-Christian  conception  of  life,  was  to  Eunice 
the  very  hall-mark  of  intrinsic  value.  It  com- 
mended itself  to  her  very  inmost  desires,  and 
a  species  of  ambition  now  took  possession  of 
her,  into  which  were  woven  her  long  smothered 
resentment  at  the  dull  and  obscure  plan  of  life 
which  had  been  laid  down  for  her,  her  longing 
for  admiration,  for  beauty,  and  for  joy,  and  her 
envy  of  the  life  of  fashionable  society. 

This  Sunday  morning  interview  with  her 
father  was  not  the  first  of  its  kind,  although 
Eunice  had  gone  on  her  way  so  quietly  as  to 
arouse  as  little  opposition  as  possible ;  but  her 
attendance  on  the  services  at  St.  Cuthbert's 
was  fast  becoming  a  regular  thing. 

Inexpressibly  wearied  and  chilled  by  the 
colorless,  negative  coldness  of  her  father's  re- 
ligious system,  into  whose  lofty  but  strenuous 
conceptions  she  found  it  impossible  to  enter, 
Eunice  was  fully  ready  to  embrace  whatever 
was  in  most  distinct  contrast  to  its  silence,  its 
severity,  and  its  unaided  upward  struggle. 
85 


Slower 

Having  overcome  her  first  recoil  from  the 
elaborate  external  symbolism  of  the  service  as 
presented  by  the  rector  of  St.  Cuthbert's,  she 
had  found  a  peculiar  luxury  of  enjoyment  in 
its  sumptuous  color  and  music  and  ceremonial, 
and  her  quick  perceptions  had  enabled  her  to 
adapt  herself  readily  to  its  varied  demands. 

Furthermore,  in  a  quiet  way  Eunice  watched 
and  studied  the  fashionable  folk  who  went  in 
and  out  before  her  at  St.  Cuthbert's,  and 
learned  with  an  almost  preternatural  intelli- 
gence to  bring  herself  "up  to  the  style  and 
manners ' '  of  their  kind.  Thus  far  she  had 
herself  remained  apparently  unnoticed. 


86 


XII 

IS  Eunice  Herendean  walked  on  down 
the  broad  avenue,  her  small  prayer- 
book  held  correctly  in  one  delicately 
gloved  hand,  enjoying  with  the  ardor  of  inex- 
perience a  faint,  elusive  perfume  about  her 
gown  and  its  luxurious  rustle,  she  was  enabled  by 
reason  of  these  alleviating  circumstances  and 
of  a  natural  aptitude,  to  throw  off  the  painful 
impression  of  her  father's  face  and  voice.  It 
had  been  simply  dreadful  to  have  his  mouth  so 
sad  and  tremulous  when  she  kissed  it,  and  it 
gave  one  a  horrid  thought  of  King  Lear,  and 
all  that  kind  of  thing ;  but  still,  though  it  was 
hard,  one  had  to  go  through  a  great  deal  for 
the  sake  of  one's  religious  convictions, — that 
she  had  always  been  taught, — and  without  any 
manner  of  doubt  she  was  convinced,  if  of  noth- 
ing more,  that  she  was  no  longer  a  Friend. 

She  passed  a  fine  house  on  the  avenue.  A 
fashionable  brougham  stood  before  the  gate, 
the  footman  at  the  door  of  it ;  a  lady  and  gen- 
tleman crossed  the  sidewalk  in  front  of  her  to 
enter  the  carriage.  They  were  St.  Cuthbert's 
people,  the  Knights — she  had  often  seen  them. 
8? 


8  TlDltn&  fflower 

They  both  eyed  her  keenly,  with  a  look  which 
seemed  to  her  to  say,  "You  are  plainly  some- 
body, but  who  ?  We  ought  to  be  able  to  rec- 
ognize a  girl  who  looks  like  that. "  In  fact  she 
heard  Mrs.  Knight  say  behind  her  as  she 
passed  : 

"  Who  can  that  lovely  creature  be  ?  "  After 
that  Eunice  walked  with  renewed  confidence, 
and  the  nervous  anxiety  with  which  she  had 
worn  her  new  array,  despite  her  pleasure  in  it, 
fell  away  completely. 

"  Give  me  time  !  "  she  said  to  herself  in  a 
kind  of  demure  exultation,  remembering  the 
unvarying  blindness  with  which  the  Barringers 
had  always  been  smitten  when  they  had  looked 
in  her  direction  in  going  out  or  coming  in  at 
St.  Cuthbert's. 

A  block  or  two  more  brought  Eunice  to  a 
fashionable  club-house,  where  a  big  bay  win- 
dow commanded  the  whole  stretch  of  the  ave- 
nue, up  and  down.  Her  heart  beat  faster  as 
she  neared  this  house,  and  although  she  passed 
it  with  averted  face,  she  was  not  wholly  sur- 
prised when  she  heard  a  step  at  her  side  and  a 
man's  voice  saying  good-morning. 

"Why,  Ralph,"  she  murmured,  a  delicate 
flush  rising  in  her  cheek,  "how  do  you  hap- 
pen to  be  in  town  to-day  ?  ' ' 

The  young  .man  thus  addressed  was  some- 
88 


fflower 


what  below  medium  height,  with  broad 
shoulders  and  an  extraordinarily  deep  chest. 
He  had  a  smoothly  shaven  face,  indifferent 
features,  a  cold  eye,  and  a  passionate  mouth 
with  thin,  flexible  lips,  but  when  he  smiled  as 
he  did  in  answer  to  the  girl's  greeting,  his  face 
suddenly  took  on  a  peculiar  and  even  capti- 
vating charm.  He  had  a  free,  untrammeled 
gait,  firm  white  hands  upon  which  he  was 
drawing  a  pair  of  loose  gloves,  and  a  certain 
air  of  poise  and  self-possession  which  might 
on  occasion  become  too  emphatic. 

"  How  could  I  happen  to  be  anywhere  else 
when  I  could  be  here,  little  cousin  ?  "  he 
asked  gayly,  in  a  finely  resonant  voice,  bending 
a  little  to  see  her  face. 

"  I  suppose  you  know  how  stunning  you 
are,  is  it  not  so  ?  Is  this  a  grand  coup  ?  '  '  and 
he  glanced  at  her  pretty  gown  with  half-mock- 
ing admiration.  "  Where  are  you  carrying  so 
much  of  chastened  splendor  ?  Not  to  Quaker 
meeting,  I'll  be  bound  !  " 

"You  shouldn't  speak  so,  Ralph,"  said 
Eunice  softly,  but  looking  up  roguishly  from  the 
corner  of  her  eye. 

"  What  is  in  the  little  lady's  hand?  "  was 

Ralph  Kidder's  next  remark,  suddenly  enclos- 

ing the  tiny  hand  and   book  together  in   the 

large,  warm  clasp  of  his  own.      "Yes,   let  me 

89 


H  1UmC>  if  lower 

have  it, ' '  he  said  imperatively ;  "I  shall,  any- 
way, you  know,"  and  he  quietly  possessed 
himself  of  Eunice's  prayer  book. 

"Well,  well,"  he  said  musingly,  fluttering 
the  leaves  as  they  walked  on  side  by  side  in  a 
good  comrade,  familiar  fashion,  "if  she  hasn't 
set  up  a  prayer  book  ! — seal  leather  too,  I  swear, 
initials  in  gold — 'crest  and  mane'  all  of  the 
most  advanced  style.  Getting  on  swimmingly, 
aren'  t  you,  child  ?  What  does  Moses  Heren- 
dean  say,  and  our  sweet  sister  ? ' ' 

' '  You  shall  not  talk  so,  Ralph,  about  my 
prayer  book,"  pouted  Eunice.  "You're  a 
horrid,  irreverent  person." 

"  You  continue  to  enjoy  St.  Cuthbert's,  I 
conclude,"  rejoined  Ralph,  smiling  carelessly  as 
he  handed  back  the  little  book.  "That's  right. 
It  is  the  correct  thing.  You  have  surprisingly 
sure  instincts,  Eunice,  in  certain  directions, 
considering  your  heredity." 

Eunice  looked  half  puzzled,  half  pleased. 

"  Is  their  music  as  good  as  it  used  to  be,  I 
wonder,"  her  cousin  continued  ;  "it  used  to 
be  simply  out  of  sight. ' ' 

"Oh,  it  is  lovely  !" 

"  And  Father  Norman,  I  suppose  the  women 

all  adore  him  just  the  same  as  ever,  don't  they? 

He's  an  odd  chap,  a  cross  between  a  saint  and 

an  actor,  it  always  struck  me  ;  and  I   have  an 

90 


a  TKatnD  jflowet 

idea  he  doesn'  t  know  himself  which  he  is  the 
more  of.  He's  deep  though,  I  can  tell  you." 

"What  do  you  mean,  Ralph?"  protested 
Eunice,  offended  by  his  tone. 

"You  don't  suppose,  you  lovely  little  sim- 
pleton, that  Norman  actually  believes  in  all 
those  high  solemnities  and  ceremonies  he  goes 
through  with,  requiem  masses  and  the  rest  of  it  ? 
Not  he  !  He  simply  is  clever  enough  to  know 
the  value  of  the  spectacular  in  religion,  and  that 
shows  his  sense.  There's  one  thing,  though, 
you'll  notice,  if  you  go  there  often,  that's  rather 
curious.  That  kind  of  a  high  ritualistic  church 
never  gets  hold  of  the  steady-going  middle  class 
of  people." 

"Why  doesn't  it?" 

Ralph  Kidder  gave  a  shrug  of  his  shoulders 
and  answered  : 

"  Perhaps  it's  because  they  have  too  much 
hard  sense,  perhaps  because  they  have  too 
little  imagination.  At  any  rate,  it's  so.  You'll 
find  plenty  of  the  high  and  mighty  society  peo- 
ple, the  fashionable  sort,  whose  luxurious  tastes 
must  be  gratified  in  religion  as  in  everything 
else  ;  and  there  is  another  stripe  that  come  with 
them  as  a  matter  of  necessity,  just  as  u  follows 
q  in  spelling." 

' '  Whom  do  you  mean  ?  ' ' 

"Their  imitators,"  and  Ralph  smiled  dryly, 


^Flower 


looking  down  into  Eunice's  face.  "  But  from 
that  point,  my  young  hearer,"  he  con- 
tinued laughing,  "  they  have  to  drop  to  the 
poor  folks  who  like  to  see  the  shows,  and  also 
are  not  averse  to  the  loaves  and  the  fishes 
which  are  apt  to  be  somewhat  freely  distributed 
among  that  ilk.  You'll  have  to  go  in  for 
double  distilled  fashion  and  no  mistake,  Eunice, 
if  you  try  to  stand  for  anything  at  St.  Cuth- 
bert's." 

"I  don't  care,"  Eunice  said  impatiently, 
vaguely  resenting  her  cousin's  advice;  "and 
I  never  thought  of  trying  to  'stand  for  any- 
thing,' as  you  say,  at  St.  Cuthbert's.  I  sup- 
posed one  went  to  church  to  worship. " 

"  Incidentally." 

"And  what  you  say  about  Father  Norman 
is  simply  wicked,"  Eunice  went  on  with  spirit, 
"I  think  you  like  to  sneer  at  people  who  are 
better  than  you.  He  is  not  like  what  you  say. 
He  seeks  nothing  for  himself,  but  lives  like  a 
poor  man,  and  just  gives  himself  up  to  fasting 
and  prayer.  I  know  he  is  sincere,  Ralph,  and 
you  needn't  try  to  make  me  believe  he  is  not. 
Anyway,  I  want  you  to  go  away  now  ;  I  don' t 
like  to  walk  on  the  street  with  you,"  she  added 
impetuously.  "  If  father  saw  that,  it  would  be 
a  great  deal  worse  than  my  going  to  church, 
and  you  know  it  perfectly  well." 
92 


a  1Clin&  flower 


' '  I  don' t  deny  it. ' ' 

"Truly,  Ralph,  I  think  we  ought  to  give  each 
other  up,  and  not  write  any  more,  or  anything. ' ' 
Eunice  had  grown  paler  than  usual  as  she  said 
this,  and  she  was  walking  on  with  downcast  eyes. 
"It  can't  be  done,  sweetheart,"  Ralph 
Kidder  said  in  an  undertone,  through  which 
vibrated  a  strong  sense  of  power  and  passion. 
"  Don't  you  know,"  he  went  on  in  the  same 
lone  which  thrilled  the  girl  by  his  side  so  that 
hot  tears  pricked  her  eyes,  "that  you  and  I 
are  bound  together  absolutely — forever  ?  Noth- 
ing can  part  us,  Eunice,  in  heaven  or  earth. 
You  may  try  as  you  will  to  escape  me,  and 
flutter  in  my  hands,  but  they  are  strong  hands 
and  they  will  hold  my  little  gray  dove  fast  for- 
ever." 

"Don't,  Ralph,  don't,"  cried  the  girl  with 
something  like  a  sob  under  her  breath.  ' '  Your 
eyes  are  cruel  and  you  frighten  me." 

"  Certainly  I  frighten  you,"  he  said  seriously 
but  unmoved.  "You  are  a  weak  nature  ;  I  am 
a  strong  one.  I  have  a  power  over  you  which 
you  cannot  resist,  and  which  will  draw  you  back 
to  me — listen,  Eunice — however  far  you  may 
seek  to  fly  beyond  my  reach." 

"You  would  not  talk  to  me  like  that  if  you 
really  loved  me,"  the  girl  said,  lifting  reproach- 
ful eyes  full  of  a  strange  conflict  of  dread  and 
93 


a  TKlinD  fflower 

love  to  his  face.  His  own  eyes  were  drawn 
narrowly,  and  under  the  level  lids  shone  a 
steely,  blue  light,  like  a  spark. 

"  Knowest  thou  what  that  means — I  love 
thee?"  he  whispered  with  passionate,  scorn- 
ful emphasis.  Then  in  a  different  tone,  "I 
go  back  to  New  York  in  the  morning,  Eunice. 
You  will  take  your  walk  this  afternoon  in  the 
usual  place  ?  ' ' 

The  question  was  more  like  a  command  than 
a  request,  but  Eunice  bent  her  head  in  assent, 
and  with  a  brief  good-morning  the  young  man 
turned  and  left  her  at  the  crossing  to  Minster 
Street. 

He  was  her  cousin,  twice  removed,  for  many 
years  an  inmate  of  Moses  Herendean's  house- 
hold until,  over  a  year  before,  he  had  cut  him- 
self off  from  it  by  a  base  action,  unpardonable 
in  the  eyes  of  the  old  man,  because  unrepented 
of.  Perhaps  Eunice  scarcely  understood  the 
nature  of  his  offense ;  in  any  case  she  felt  that 
he  had  been  too  severely  dealt  with,  and  their 
boy  and  girl  attachment  had  ripened  by  clan- 
destine interviews  into  a  secret  understanding 
and  a  vague  promise  of  marriage  on  her  part. 
He  was  now  studying  medicine  in  New  York, 
and  merely  visited  Coalport  at  longer  or  shorter 
intervals. 

Minster  Street  was  separated  at  this  end 
94 


S  TKflinO  flower 


only  by  a  small  square  from  the  business  part 
of  the  town,  and  the  general  blackness  of 
Coalport  proper  was  intensified  on  a  morning 
like  this  by  the  covering  of  snow  on  roofs  and 
walls.  On  the  pavement  the  trampled  snow 
served  simply  to  make  the  blackness  fluid, 
while  in  the  square  at  the  end  of  the  street  it 
lay  sodden  and  cinder-flecked  beneath  the 
yellow  fog  and  spectral  trees.  The  sculptured 
facade  of  the  Church  of  St.  Cuthbert,  al- 
though not  in  reality  of  great  age,  had  been 
blackened  by  the  sooty  air  to  an  aspect  of 
hoary  antiquity,  and  the  statue  of  the  venera- 
ble bishop  between  the  doors  rose  portentous 
in  coal  black  robes  and  mitre. 

Eunice  gathered  her  dainty  skirts  in  one 
slender  hand  and  stepped  on  across  the 
muddy  pavement,  approaching  the  church  with 
an  air  of  circumspect  gravity.  Just  as  she 
reached  the  foot  of  the  steps  she  was  aware 
that  the  carriage  drawn  up  at  the  curb  was 
that  of  the  Barringers,  and  that  a  face  to  face 
meeting  with  the  family  on  the  church  steps 
could  hardly  be  avoided.  It  was  not  an  en- 
counter which  Eunice  coveted,  for  she  had 
perceived  plainly  before  this  that  her  summer 
acquaintances  did  not  care  to  know  her  in 
Coalport ;  but  her  spirit  rose  to  the  occasion, 
and  she  went  slowly  and  with  self-possession 
95 


"CdinD  fflower 


up  the  steps,  almost  by  Florence  Barringer's 
side,  and  so,  without  word  or  token  of  recog- 
nition, passed  into  the  cold  vestibule  before 
her. 

"That  was  the  little  Herendean  girl  we  met 
at  Whippany,  Flo,"  said  Grace  Barringer,  as 
the  two  lingered  for  a  little  space  behind 
Eunice.  "What  possessed  you  not  to  speak  to 
her?" 

"The  instinct  of  self-defense,  I  believe," 
replied  Miss  Barringer  carelessly.  ' '  You  know 
I  never  keep  up  acquaintance  with  those  acci- 
dental summer  people  if  I  can  help  it.  Fancy 
what  a  bore  it  would  be  after  a  while." 

"Somebody  has  taught  her  how  to  dress 
herself,"  whispered  Grace  in  her  sister's  ear. 
' '  Who  do  you  suppose  it  can  be  ?  That  gray 
effect  is  positively  an  inspiration. ' ' 

"  Herself,"  murmured  Miss  Barringer,  push- 
ing open  the  heavy  inner  door,  while  a  fine 
seriousness  seemed  to  settle  visibly  upon  her 
handsome  features;  "she  is  an  extremely 
clever  little  person  in  her  way." 

The  interior  of  St.  Cuthbert's  possessed  in 
full  measure  that  impressiveness,  half  aesthetic, 
half  religious,  which  Gothic  architecture  alone 
can  produce.  Furthermore,  every  art  and 
device  by  which  this  effect  can  be  augmented 
had  been  employed.  Subdued  richness  of 
96 


B  TOUnJ)  flower 

color ;  the  subtle  mingling  and  heightening 
by  contrast  of  simplicity  and  elaboration  ;  the 
presence  on  every  hand  of  symbolic  suggestion  ; 
the  white  beauty  of  the  sculptured  reredos,  and 
the  soft  lights  of  the  altar  glimmering  through 
the  dim  choir ;  the  strains  of  solemn,  mystical 
music — all  things  which  could  smite  sense  and 
spirit  at  once  and  fuse  them  into  a  mysterious 
and  bewildering  identity,  surrounded  the  wor- 
shipers as  they  entered. 

Eunice,  passing  down  a  side  aisle  alone,  was 
ushered  into  an  empty  pew,  and  although  her 
manner  was  devout  and  her  private  devotions 
were  performed  with  faultless  propriety,  her 
mind,  for  the  moment,  was  absorbed  in  the 
cut  direct  which  she  had  just  received,  and 
responded  but  mechanically  to  the  influences 
of  the  place. 

She  was  not  angry,  certainly  not  in  any 
heated  and  unbecoming  manner.  That  was 
not  her  way.  It  had  not  been  pleasant  to 
receive  this  cold  ignoring,  the  rather  that  she 
had  been  favored  to  present  herself  this  first 
time  fully  before  the  Barringers  at  the  very 
utmost  she  could  compass  at  present  of  ex- 
ternal advantage.  Nevertheless,  she  rathe": 
admired  than  resented  Miss  Barringer's  un- 
hesitating canceling  of  the  slight  and  casual 
relation  which  had  existed  between  them. 
G  97 


fflower 


She  would  have  liked  to  do  exactly  the  same 
thing  herself  to  some  superfluous  people  she 
knew,  and  whom  she  had  always  held  herself 
bound  to  treat  with  tiresome  consideration. 
In  fine,  the  sum  of  her  reflections  which  ended 
with  the  outburst  of  the  processional  as  the 
choir  entered  the  nave,  was  this  : 

"Why  should  they  care  to  know  me  as  long 
as  I  am  a  nobody?  If  I  can  ever  make  it 
worth  their  while  to  know  me  for  any  reason, 
very  well.  That  will  be  another  story.  '  ' 

Just  at  that  point  somebody  fluttered  nerv.- 
ously  into  the  seat  beside  her,  out  of  breath 
and  panting.  The  head  which  was  presently 
bowed  in  prayer  before  Eunice's  eyes  struck 
her  instantly  as  having  a  crest  like  that  of  some 
foreign  bird.  When  the  lady  arose  from  her 
knees,  Eunice  found  she  was  not  mistaken.  It 
was  Miss  Archibald. 


98 


XIII 

JHE  two-o'clock  dinner  that  day  was  a 
silent  and  subdued  one  in  the  Willow 
Street  mansion.  Moses  Herendean 
looked  like  a  man  who  had  received  a  blow  ; 
his  face  had  grown  old  and  stern  and  sad. 
Eunice  could  find  little  in  common  to  discuss 
with  her  father  and  sister,  since  any  question 
as  to  the  conduct  and  nature  of  their  meeting 
seemed  but  to  emphasize  the  fact  that  she  had 
not  participated  in  it ;  and  Mary  who  struggled 
all  through  the  dinner  hour  for  some  safe  and 
comfortable  topic,  could  not  venture  to  make 
inquiries  regarding  the  nature  of  the  service  in 
which  her  sister  had  engaged,  and  yet  these 
seemed  the  only  subjects  present  to  their 
minds. 

After  dinner,  Moses  Herendean  withdrew  to 
the  library  for  his  usual  nap,  and  the  sisters 
went  into  the  morning  room. 

"Dear  me,  Mary,"  Eunice  broke  out  im- 
patiently, "what  is  the  matter  with  everybody 
to-day?  Father  looks  as  if  there  had  been  a 
death  in  the  family  at  least,  and  nobody  seems 
able  to  speak  a  word. ' ' 
99 


Mary  Herendean  was  seated  at  her  desk, 
upon  which  she  leaned  one  elbow,  and  turning 
toward  Eunice,  rested  her  head  on  her  hand 
and  looked  at  her  wistfully  for  a  moment. 

"I  think  father  is  very  unhappy,  Eunice," 
she  said  slowly,  as  if  fearing  to  give  her  sister 
pain  ;  ' '  and  perhaps  we  ought  now  to  talk  the 
matter  over  a  little  more  plainly." 

"What  matter?" 

Eunice  had  thrown  herself  upon  a  small 
sofa  opposite  the  desk,  and  with  both  hands 
clasped  under  her  cheek  looked  over  at  Mary 
with  a  challenge  in  her  eyes. 

' '  Father  said  I  would  better  tell  thee,  dear, 
the  thing  which  makes  him  so  cast  down.  He 
will  not  say  a  word  to  interfere,  though,  and  I 

do   not   quite  see  how  he  can,   unless " 

Here  Mary  broke  off  as  if  she  found  the  sub- 
ject difficult  to  approach. 

' '  Well  ?  ' '  said  Eunice  calmly. 

' '  Phoebe  Anthony  had  a  long  talk  with  him 
after  meeting  to-day.  She  has  a  concern  on 
her  mind,  Eunice,  about  thy  seeming  'drawn 
away,'  she  puts  it,  from  Society." 

"She  needn't  trouble  herself,"  said  Eunice 
hastily. 

"The  fact  is,"  Mary  continued,  "I  am  sorry 
about  it  as  I  can  be,  and  I  think  they  are  mis- 
taken in  judgment,  but  she  and  another  woman 
100 


fftower 


Friend  —  I  am  not  sure,  but  I  think  it  is  to  be 
Deborah  Longstreth  —  are  to  be  appointed  a 
committee  to  talk  with  thee  about  thy  duty  in 
adhering  to  Friends'  principles,  and  all  that.  '  ' 

Eunice  remained  perfectly  still,  not  chang- 
ing her  attitude  in  any  degree,  and  the  only 
changes  in  her  face  were  a  slight  flush  and  in 
the  eyes  the  look  of  concentrated  thought. 

"Deborah  Longstreth  is  just  the  one  to 
labor  with  me,"  she  said  after  a  period  of  si- 
lence ;  "she  has  experience,  and  she  has  been 
so  successful  with  her  own  girls.  '  ' 

Mary  paid  no  attention  to  the  sarcasm  of 
this  remark. 

"Friends  feel,  naturally,"  she  began  again, 
"a  peculiar  degree  of  interest  in  thee,  Eunice, 
father  being  at  the  head  of  the  meeting,  and 
his  influence  and  position  so  conspicuous.  It 
is  very  hard  for  him,  dear,  we  must  remember 
that,  and  he  is  so  good,  and  so  very  fond  of 
thee." 

"  I  know  it,"  said  Eunice  softly. 

"  If  thee  could  be  willing  to  remain  among 
Friends  while  he  is  with  us,"  proceeded  Mary 
with  a  little  tremor  in  her  voice,  "it  would  be 
such  a  joy  to  him.  Can't  thee  make  up  thy 
mind  to  give  up  St.  Cuthbert's  for  a  while  yet? 
and  then  I  could  just  send  a  line  to  Phcebe 
Anthony  and  tell  her  that  the  committee  need 
101 


flower 


not  come,  and  we  would  all  be  happy  again,  '  ' 
and  Mary's  face  grew  bright  with  eager  hope. 

Eunice  lay  silent  for  a  little  space  and  then 
asked  : 

"When  am  I  to  be  labored  with,  please  in- 
form me,  by  this  committee?" 

"Next  Fourth-day,  I  think,  after  monthly 
meeting,"  said  Mary  in  a  low,  reluctant  tone. 

"I  wish  they  would  mind  their  own  business 
and  stay  at  home,"  remarked  Eunice  slowly, 
in  a  passionless,  thoughtful  way  assorting  curi- 
ously with  her  words. 

"  So  do  I,"  said  Mary  heartily  ;  "but  thee  is 
the  only  one  now  who  can  stop  their  coming, 
and  oh,  Eunice,  it  will  hurt  father  so  to  have 
them  !" 

'  '  I  know  it,  Mary,  '  '  said  Eunice,  springing 
to  her  feet,  and  speaking  with  sudden  fire, 
"and  it  almost  breaks  my  heart  to  hurt  him, 
but  if  thee  only  knew  how  I  hate,  yes  hate  ' 
hate  !  .'  hate  .'  !  !  that  Friends'  meeting,  how  it 
chills  and  withers  me,  and  makes  me  wicked 
and  ungrateful  and  rebellious,  thee  wouldn't 
ask  me  to  go  back  to  it  now  !  '  ' 

"But,  Eunice,  if  thee  must  leave  Friends, 
why  not  choose  some  body  of  Christians  where 
there  is  simplicity  in  worship,  where  the  em- 
phasis is  not  all  on  the  external,  and  not  this 
exaggerated,  pompous  ritualism  of  St.  Cuth- 
102 


B  TUflinD  Slower 

bert's?  I  think  that  is  the  most  painful  part 
of  it  with  father.  He  feels  as  if  thee  were  going 
straight  into  Roman  Catholicism. ' ' 

"But  I  am  not,"  replied  Eunice;  "and  if 
he  would  only  go  and  hear  Father  Norman 
preach,  Mary,  he  would  feel  differently.  Oh, 
he  is  simply  glorious  when  he  preaches,  and  he 
makes  the  service  so  beautiful,  so  full  of  mean- 
ing !  Mary,  I  cannot  give  it  up  It  would 
only  be  to  go  through  with  the  agony  at  some 
other  time.  The  committee  may  as  well  come 
and  get  it  over  with. "  And  Eunice  hurried 
from  the  room  and  ran  upstairs,  where  alone, 
she  studied  the  situation  and  formed  her  plan 
for  herself. 

The  startling  fact  that  her  movements  and 
opinions  weie  taken  cognizance  of  by  the 
monthly  meeting,  and  were  to  be  made  sub- 
jects of  an  official  and,  indirectly,  of  a  dis- 
ciplinary interview,  suddenly  crystallized  her 
vague,  indefinite  ideas  and  desires  into  fixed 
intentions.  She  had,  to  be  sure,  received  scant 
encouragement  at  St.  Cuthbert's,  and  her  way 
was  not  clear  and  plain  before  her,  but  she  had 
one  person  to  whom  she  believed  she  could 
turn  with  the  certainty  of  sympathy  and  wel- 
come. This  was  Miss  Archibald.  The  little 
lady  had  given  her  a  most  cordial  recognition 
after  service  that  morning,  had  praised  her 
103 


21  TJClinJ)  fflowet 


pretty  looks  with  artless  flattery,  and  had  asked 
her  to  share  her  pew  whenever  she  chose  to 
come  to  St.  Cuthbert's.  Hers  would  do  for 
a  helping  hand,  but  the  person  upon  whom 
Eunice's  thoughts  were  concentrated,  with 
suddenly  awakened  purpose,  was  quite  another 
from  Miss  Archibald,  being  in  fact  Father  Nor- 
man himself. 

When  Mary  came  upstairs  late  in  the  after- 
noon, she  found  Eunice  sitting  in  her  window, 
her  lap  scattered  over  with  a  number  of  tracts 
and  leaflets  bearing  such  titles  as  "The  Eu- 
charistic  Sacrifice, "  "  Anglican  Orders, "  "  Sac- 
ramental Confession,"  and  the  like. 

Eunice  had  unearthed  the  small  packet  of 
these  from  her  trunk  in  the  garret,  where  they 
had  lain  since  she  returned  in  September  from 
Whippany. 

"I  must  have  my  reasons  ready  for  that 
horrid  committee,  Mary,"  she  said,  glancing 
up  at  her  sister  with  a  smile.  But  this  was  not 
the  only  or  the  ruling  motive  which  led  Eunice 
to  the  study  of  Father  Norman's  tracts. 


104 


XIV 

|T  was  the  fourth  day  of  the  week,  and 
the  day  of  the  regular  mid-week 
meeting,  and  also  of  the  monthly 
meeting  of  Friends  in  their  plain  brick  meet- 
ing-house on  Barclay  Street. 

Mary  Herendean  had  been  spending  a  busy 
morning,  first  at  home  in  ordering  the  monthly 
meeting  dinner,  always  a  notable  feast,  and 
afterward  at  a  free  kindergarten  in  lower  Coal- 
port,  where  she  was  a  constant  aide.  She, 
reached  the  meeting-house  a  few  minutes  late, 
and  with  cheeks  like  pink  roses  from  the  haste 
with  which  she  had  walked.  It  was  a  mild  day 
with  an  air  like  spring,  "  a  January  thaw,"  and 
the  old  black  sexton  with  grizzled  hair  and 
beard  stood  out  on  the  steps  bareheaded,  as  if 
watching  for  a  few  more  straggling  sheep  to  find 
the  fold. 

He  welcomed  Mary  with  a  silent  grin,  and 
with  noiseless  motions  she  opened  the  inner 
door,  entered  the  house,  and  slipped  quietly 
into  her  wonted  place. 

The  large,  high  interior  was  divided  midway 
by  a  low  partition,  on  the  right  of  which  was  the 
105 


B  IDKnfc  Slower 

women's  side,  on  the  left  the  men's.  Three 
rows  of  elevated  forms  rising  in  successive  tiers 
one  above  the  other  across  the  entire  length 
of  the  room,  faced  the  body  of  the  house, 
and  were  reserved  for  ' '  elders  ' '  and  ' '  ap- 
proved ministers ' '  of  the  society.  The  walls 
were  devoid  of  decoration  or  device,  tinted, 
like  the  woodwork,  a  pale  gray,  and  the  tall 
windows  were  of  plain  glass,  with  green  blinds 
closed  behind  them.  A  green  carpet  of  a  small 
and  obsolete  pattern,  covered  the  floor,  and 
there  were  faded  green  cushions  in  the  seats. 
None  of  the  usual  adjuncts  of  Protestant  wor- 
ship, even  so  much  as  a  Bible  or  hymnal,  were 
to  be  seen.  Nothing  was  imposing,  beautiful, 
or  suggestive.  There  were,  and  this  of  inten- 
tion, no  features  in  the  meeting-house,  either 
without  or  within,  which  could  occasion  remark 
or  attract  the  eyes  of  the  worshipers,  or  even 
stimulate  their  devotion.  Friends  fear  external 
suggestion  on  the  one  hand,  as  an  interruption 
to  the  pure  inward  communion  of  the  soul,  and 
on  the  other,  despise  its  aid,  as  a  concession  to 
the  weakness  of  the  flesh.  It  is  to  them  putting 
the  material  in  the  place  of  the  spiritual. 

In  the  corner  of  the   men's   highest   seat 

nearest  the  women's   side   of  the   house   sat 

Moses    Herendean    alone.       His    head    was 

slightly  bowed,  and  the  expression  of  his  face 

106 


a  Mind  flower 

was  of  peaceful  but  exalted  spiritual  introspec- 
tion. 

Only  removed  from  him  by  the  space  of  a 
few  feet,  on  the  right,  sat  a  somewhat  rigid  and 
watchful-eyed  woman  Friend,  in  the  distinctive 
gray  silk  bonnet,  the  snowy  lawn  shawl  in  am- 
ple folds  over  the  bosom,  and  the  heavier  shawl 
lying  loosely  upon  her  shoulders.  This  was 
Phoebe  Anthony.  She  also  was  alone  on  the 
"high  seat,"  but  several  women  wearing  the 
plain  bonnet  sat  in  the  raised  portion  at  inter- 
vals below  her,  while  a  similar  sprinkling  of 
men  occupied  the  corresponding  seats  on  the 
other  side.  In  the  body  of  the  house  there 
were  gathered  twenty  or  thirty  men  and  a  larger 
number  of  women.  Few  of  these,  however, 
dressed  distinctively  as  Friends. 

The  hush  of  perfect  stillness  pervaded  the 
great  room,  an  inner  stillness,  not  merely  an 
outer,  it  seemed  ;  into  this  silence  Mary  Heren- 
dean  felt  her  own  spirit  sink,  as  into  its  place 
of  rest.  An  inarticulate,  but  no  less  sensible  vol- 
ume of  prayer  and  praise  and  adoration  seemed 
to  her  to  rise  from  the  assembly  as  the  people  sat 
with  bowed  heads,  motionless  forms,  and  rapt 
faces,  silent,  for  the  space  of  half  an  hour. 

Then,  not  suddenly,  but  as  naturally  as  if 
the  silence  itself  had  found  voice,  Mary  heard 
her  father  pronounce  the  words  : 
107 


B  1din&  jflower 

"  How  sweet,  how  awful  is  the  place, 

With  Christ  within  the  doors, 

While  everlasting  love  displays 

The  choicest  of  her  stores  !  " 

Then  in  few  words,  not  with  conscious  elo- 
quence or  regard  to  oratorical  effect,  Moses 
Herendean  proceeded  to  interpret  the  pro- 
found depths  of  spiritual  meaning  in  the  ' '  silent 
waiting  before  God  ' '  in  which  they  had  been 
engaged.  He  admonished  Friends  to  see  to  i. 
that  such  sacred  privilege  was  not  by  an} 
means  suffered  to  degenerate  into  a  barren  and 
empty  formalism,  and  to  have  the  patience  of 
love  toward  those  who  might  exclaim  in  dis- 
couragement concerning  this  worship,  "It  is 
high,  I  cannot  attain  unto  it." 

He  took  his  seat,  and  again  the  same  hush 
fell  upon  the  worshipers,  intensified  perhaps 
by  the  direction  thus  briefly  given  their 
thoughts.  Outside,  the  roar  of  the  city  and 
the  great  waves  of  the  world's  life  surged  on 
hoarse  and  harsh,  but  they  entered  not  into 
this  still  seclusion,  even  if  distinct  to  the  bodily 
ear  in  the  unbroken  silence.  Then  there  was 
a  little  motion  on  the  second  of  the  raised 
seats,  a  woman  who  had  sat  until  now  with  down- 
cast eyes  and  a  face  like  the  face  of  an  angel 
in  its  pure  repose,  quietly  removed  the  stiff 
gray  bonnet  from  her  head,  exposing  the  soft 
1 08 


B  lUinD  flower 

parted  hair  under  the  spotless  Quaker  cap, 
handed  her  bonnet  without  turning  her  head 
to  the  Friend  who  sat  by  her  side,  and  thus 
uncovered  knelt  in  prayer. 

Immediately  the  scattered  company  arose, 
each  in  his  own  place,  and  stood  with  heads 
devoutly  bent,  while  the  tremulous  voice  in  its 
peculiar  chanting  cadence  rose  through  the 
silence.  The  thought  expressed  was  simple 
and  sincere,  though  vague  ;  the  language 
strikingly  biblical ;  and  at  its  close  the  prayer 
suddenly  soared  upward  in  a  burst  of  aspira- 
tion singularly  moving.  The  company  was 
again  seated,  and  after  a  few  moments  more  of 
silence  Moses  Herendean,  turning  toward 
Phoebe  Anthony  with  grave  greeting,  shook 
hands  formally  with  her  and  the  meeting  for 
worship  was  closed.  There  was  a  little  stir  and 
murmur,  but  most  of  the  worshipers  kept  their 
seats.  The  grizzled  sexton  now  appeared  and, 
with  some  little  rattle  which  smote  sharply  on 
ears  accustomed  to  the  silence,  drew  up  from 
the  dividing  line  a  movable  partition  not  unlike 
a  broad  Venetian  blind,  which  effectually  sepa- 
rated the  men's  meeting  from  the  women's, 
and  which  was  the  signal  for  both  bodies  to  go 
into  the  business  session  which  distinguished 
the  monthly  or  quarterly  meeting. 

It  was  one  o'clock  when  the  business  session 
109 


flower 


closed,  and  Moses  Herendean  having  gathered 
up  a  little  company  of  country  visitors  for  din- 
ner, after  the  old-fashioned  Quaker  habit  of 
hospitality,  put  them  into  his  carriage  which 
had  waited  long  in  the  yard,  and  himself 
started  to  walk  home  with  his  daughter. 

"  The  Ensigns,"  he  explained  to  Mary,  when 
he  had  closed  the  carriage  door  with  his  stately 
old-time  courtesy,  "  wish  to  pay  a  visit  over  on 
the  west  side  before  dinner,  as  they  leave  town 
shortly  after.  I  have  given  Simeon  directions 
where  to  drive  them." 

Moses  Herendean  had  recovered  from  his 
lameness,  save  for  a  slight  weakness  in  the  in- 
jured leg,  and  walked  firmly,  though  slowly, 
with  the  aid  of  a  heavy  cane.  As  he  and 
Mary  passed  down  the  busy  street  many  eyes 
followed  them  —  the  fine,  erect  old  man,  with 
the  striking  nobility  of  his  clean,  clear  face, 
and  with  his  broad-brimmed  hat  and  long, 
quaintly  fashioned  coat  ;  the  girl  beside  him 
in  the  fullness  of  her  youth  and  womanly 
beauty,  with  her  grave,  sweet  harmony  of  look. 
Mary  Herendean'  s  dress  was  quiet  but  taste- 
ful, and  the  little  dark  velvet  bonnet  tied 
closely  over  her  bright  hair  gave  a  fine  natural 
contour  to  her  head,  strikingly  unlike  the  pa- 
goda effect  of  the  fashionable  headgear  preva- 
lent. 

no 


a  TKfltnD  fflower 

"We  had  a  good  meeting,  Mary,"  said  the 
Friend,  as  they  walked  on.  "I  have  seldom 
experienced  more  sensibly  the  Divine  presence, 
even  in  the  old  days  when  the  strength  of  num- 
bers was  ours.  There  was  a  sweet  covering 
over  us,  even  from  the  first. ' ' 

"I  felt  it,  father." 

As  she  spoke,  Mary  was  suddenly  aware, 
with  a  strangely  perturbed  sensation,  that  the 
man  approaching  them  in  pronounced  clerical 
garb  was  Father  Norman.  She  had  not  seen 
him  since  he  left  Whippany  in  the  summer. 
In  another  moment  they  had  met  face  to  face, 
and  Norman  had  removed  his  hat  and  stood 
aside  with  an  expression  of  profound  respect  as 
the  two  passed  him  gravely  returning  his  salu- 
tation. But  the  old  man's  hand  trembled 
upon  his  stick,  and  Mary  felt  her  own  inner 
excitement  augmented  by  a  swift,  startled  con- 
sciousness which  she  had  noted  in  Francis 
Norman's  face  when  he  first  caught  sight  of 
them. 

"There  is  the  man  who  is  robbing  me  of 
my  child,  the  child  of  my  old  age,"  said  Moses 
Herendean  quietly,  but  with  evident  feeling, 
as  they  walked  on. 

' '  Father, ' '    said   Mary  timidly,    ' '  I  almost 
fancy  thee  is  mistaken  in  thinking  that.    Eunice 
told  me  yesterday  that  she  had  never  spoken  to 
in 


jflower 


Francis  Norman  since  we  saw  him  in  Whippany. 
She  does  not  think  he  even  knows  that  she 
attends  his  church." 

"Is  it  so?  "  asked  the  gentle  old  man  in  a 
milder  tone  ;  "  then  some  other  influence  is  at 
work. ' ' 

"The  same,  I  think,  that  is  at  work  every- 
where." said  Mary  thoughtfully,  "the  time- 
spirit.  Friends  are  not  in  accord  with  it ;  but 
whether  they  are  strong  enough  to  stand  against 

it It    is   a   noisy  spirit,    father   dear,    and 

silence  it  will  none  of,"  and  Mary  smiled. 

"  I  have  had  great  searchings  of  heart  since 
First  Day,"  her  father  answered;  "  thee 
knows  I  was  under  a  deep  exercise  of  spirit 
that  day,  and  could  not  find  it  in  my  heart  to 
submit  to  the  turning  away  from  us  of  the 
child,"  and  his  voice  trembled  slightly.  "But 
I  have  been  led  out  into  a  larger  place,  Mary, 
in  heart,  and  thy  words  are  in  accord  with  the 
views  which  have  been  given  me." 

Mary  looked  up  quickly,  and  with  swift,  un- 
speakable sympathy  into  the  beautiful  old  face 
of  her  father. 

"I  have  been  led  to  see,"  Moses  Heren- 
dean  continued,  in  a  firmer  tone,  while  his  look 
was  yet  profoundly  sad,  "that  there  is  a  cer- 
tain rhythmic  ebb  and  flow  in  the  great  spirit- 
ual movements  among  men.  There  is  a  wave 
112 


a  Timing  flower 

of  doubt,  it  may  chance,  then  a  wave  of  ex- 
cessive and  evil  formalism,  then  a  sudden  high 
tide  of  religious  sensitiveness  and  an  abasement 
and  abnegation  of  self  before  God  perhaps 
sweeping  through  a  nation  even  ;  then  this  too 
passes,  and  for  a  time,  it  may  be,  men  will  see 
only  the  sullen  sea  of  materialism  and  spiritual 
deadness.  Often  too,  the  same  cycle  of 
changes  comes  in  the  individual  life  as  in  hu- 
manity at  large,  and  who  can  let  or  hinder  ?  ' ' 

Mary  listened  reverently. 

"But  let  us  not  doubt,  Mary,"  Moses 
Herendean  continued,  with  a  sudden  light  in 
his  eyes,  and  a  new  elevation  in  his  look,  "or 
dream  that  our  God  has  forgotten  to  be 
gracious  !  What  has  been,  shall  return  as 
before.  Our  system  may  '  have  its  day  and 
cease  to  be,'  but  what  then?  There  is  a  spirit 
in  man  and  the  Almighty  giveth  it  understand- 
ing. There  may  be  other  manifestations,  and 
the  self-same  spirit.  What  are  we,  to  cling  to 
our  place  and  name  ?  If  we  pass,  and  our 
message  is  again  needed,  God,  who  aforetime 
spake  by  the  mouth  of  his  prophets,  can  raise 
up  new  prophets  who  shall  cry  aloud  and  spare 
not,  until  the  foolish  and  disobedient  turn 
again  from  folly  and  purge  themselves  from 
dead  works  to  serve  the  living  God.  He 
will  not  leave  himself  without  a  witness.  The 
H  113 


B  "GCUnO  Jflower 

Inner  Light  shall  lighten  every  man  that  com- 
eth  into  the  world. ' ' 

He  paused,  and  they  walked  on  in  silence 
a  little  space,  when,  turning  to  his  daughter 
with  a  smile  exquisitely  benign,  the  old  man 
added  : 

' '  Therefore  will  we  not  fear. ' ' 

Then  Mary  knew  that  there  would  be  no 
further  heart-burnings  as  regarded  the  lapse  of 
Eunice  from  their  inherited  faith,  and  she 
knew  the  way  by  which  her  father  had  reached 
the  large-minded  patience  and  sweetness  with 
which  he  was  thereafter  to  treat  his  child. 


114 


XV 


on  that  Wednesday 
morning,  Eunice  Herendean  had 
betaken  herself  with  a  fixed  purpose 
to  the  service  at  St.  Cuthbert's,  which  was 
held  at  the  same  hour  as  the  Friends'  meeting 
in  Barclay  Street. 

She  was  not  without  some  hesitation  in  fol- 
lowing out  the  course  she  had  prescribed  for 
herself,  which,  in  her  quiet  and  uneventful 
life  seemed  little  less  than  revolutionary  ;  and 
the  old  words,  "  Be  bold,  Be  bold,  and  every- 
where Be  bold,"  seemed  to  beat  in  her  ears 
like  blows  on  a  drum,  all  the  way  as  she 
walked  down  to  Minster  Street.  Arrived  in 
the  church  she  stood  irresolute  in  its  still, 
echoing  spaces,  for  not  more  than  a  score  of 
persons  were  gathered  at  this  hour,  and 
scanned  the  number  of  these  narrowly. 

She  soon  discovered  Miss  Archibald  in  her 
distant  pew,  and  walked  with  some  diffidence 
down  the  long  aisle  alone,  and  presented  her- 
self with  a  timid,  questioning  smile  at  the  little 
lady' s  left  elbow.  Miss  Archibald  quickly  and 
cordially  made  space  for  her  at  her  side,  and 
"5 


B  TldinD  fflower 

patted  her  cold  hand  with  many  reassuring 
smiles. 

"You're  almost  getting  to  be  one  of  us, 
aren'  t  you  ?  ' '  she  whispered  very  loud,  and 
greatly  to  Eunice's  discomfiture;  "that's 
right.  Just  come  right  along. ' ' 

At  the  conclusion  of  the  service  which  some 
way  affected  Eunice  strangely,  given  in  the 
nearly  empty  church,  without  music  and  with 
the  strange  hollow  echoes  following  Father 
Norman's  voice,  she  walked  out  with  Miss 
Archibald  in  silence,  although  with  now  and 
then  the  beginning  of  a  question  on  her  lips 
which  died  away  unspoken  by  reason  of  her 
timidity.  Finally,  when  they  had  passed  out 
into  the  vestibule  she  took  heart  of  grace  and 
seeing  her  last  chance  to  carry  out  her  intent 
for  that  day  about  to  close,  for  Miss  Archibald 
had  begun  to  cock  her  head  for  an  affable 
good-morning,  she  said  hastily,  though  with 
hesitation  : 

"Do  you  think,  Miss  Archibald — could  I — 
do  you  suppose — see  Mr.  Norman  just  for  a 
moment  ? ' ' 

Miss  Archibald's  bright  eyes  twinkled  in 
keen  surprise,  but  she  smiled  almost  affection- 
ately as  she  replied  : 

"Why,  bless  me,  yes,  child!  Of  course 
you  can  see  Father  Norman,  if  you  can  catch 
116 


B  1idtn&  fflower 

him  when  he  isn't  busy.  It  is  hard  to  do  that 
sometimes." 

Eunice  waited  with  a  beating  heart  as  Miss 
Archibald  consulted  her  watch  and  said  : 

"  It  is  not  twelve  yet,  and  if  you  will  go 
with  me  right  off  now  into  the  school  next 
door,  you  know,  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  we 
would  find  him  there.  He  gives  a  lecture  to 
the  scholars  I  know  at  twelve,  and  he  may  be 
able  to  spare  you  a  few  minutes,"  and  without 
waiting  for  further  discussion,  Miss  Archibald 
led  the  way  out  to  the  street,  and  past  the 
church  to  the  parish  house,  a  long  row  of  brick 
buildings  adjoining. 

They  entered  a  bare  and  somewhat  cheer- 
less corridor,  at  the  left  of  which  wide  folding 
doors  stood  open  into  a  reception  room  of  a 
stiff  and  official  character.  Motioning  Eunice 
to  enter  this  room,  which  she  did  with  a  physi- 
cal trembling,  as  if  it  had  been  an  operating 
room  in  a  hospital,  Miss  Archibald  fluttered 
nervously  upon  the  threshold  turning  her  head 
with  swift  motions  to  look  now  up  and  then 
down  the  corridor  in  search  of  some  one  who 
looked  willing  to  be  interrupted  by  a  commis- 
sion. 

"  I  guess  maybe  I'd  better  go  out  and  ring 
that  bell,"  she  began  to  say,  when  a  middle- 
aged  woman,  in  the  black  garb  of  the  sister- 
117 


B  "WHtnO  jflowet 


hood  attached  to  St.  Cuthbert's  approached 
her,  and  asked  with  a  somewhat  severe  civility 
if  she  wanted  anything. 

"Oh,  if  you  please,  Sister  Agatha — "  said 
Miss  Archibald,  "this  is  Sister  Agatha,  isn't 
it?  I  know  you,  if  you  don't  know  me — Miss 
Archibald,"  whereupon  Sister  Agatha  bowed, 
but  did  not  relax  the  formidable  seriousness  of 
her  countenance,  "Would  you,  could  you, 
don't  you  know,  if  it  isn't  putting  you  out  too 
much — see  if  Father  Norman  could  come 
down  and  let  me  speak  with  him  a  moment?  " 

"  I  do  not  know  whether  he  has  come  in 
yet,"  replied  the  other  briefly  ;  "I  will  see," 
and  she  turned  and  went  slowly  up  the  stairs ; 
Miss  Archibald  thereupon  rejoined  Eunice, 
who  now  most  devoutly  repented  her  of  her 
undertaking,  the  motives  for  which  seemed  sud- 
denly to  have  been  frozen  to  death  by  the  atmos- 
phere around  her.  So  the  girl  sat,  frightened 
and  sick  at  heart,  with  drooping  eyes  and  nerv- 
ous hands,  when  suddenly  the  tall  figure  of 
Francis  Norman  stood  in  the  doorway,  and, 
not  seeing  Eunice,  advanced  to  meet  Miss 
Archibald,  who  had  risen  with  all  her  little  fur- 
belows in  a  flutter,  a  book  held  in  his  hand — 
his  place  marked  by  one  finger — his  look  grave 
and  preoccupied,  his  step  hasty. 

The  manner  in  which  Father  Norman  re- 
118 


flower 


ceived  Miss  Archibald,  while  very  courteous, 
seemed  to  Eunice  to  say  distinctly  that  he 
hoped  she  would  make  her  errand  as  brief  as 
possible,  when  suddenly,  caught  unawares,  his 
eyes  lighting  upon  her  own  chilled  and  un- 
happy little  person,  an  extraordinary  change 
came  into  his  face,  and  to  the  girl'  s  amazement 
he  approached  and  spoke  to  her  with  a  face 
fairly  transformed  by  sudden  and  irrepressible 
pleasure  ;  his  eyes  for  a  moment  seemed  to  flood 
her  own  with  their  light. 

It  passed  and  his  face  regained  its  impassive 
listening  expression,  but  Eunice  had  received  a 
new  thought  into  her  heart,  which  was  destined 
to  have  its  working.  She  had  long  since  fallen 
into  the  ranks  of  Father  Norman's  adorers. 

"It  is  I  who  wanted  to  speak  with  you," 
she  said  rising  with  a  sudden  influx  of  warmth 
and  confidence,  and  holding  out  her  hand, 
which  Father  Norman  clasped  cordially  ;  '  '  Miss 
Archibald  was  so  very  kind  as  to  come  here 
with  me,  for  I  should  not  have  known  at  all 
how  to  find  you,  or  anything,"  she  added  in 
her  childish,  unstudied  fashion,  "if  she  had 
not  helped  me." 

Father  Norman  bowed  his  appreciation  of 

Miss  Archibald's  amiable  intervention,  and  the 

little  lady,  hardly  knowing  whether   her  cue 

was  to  withdraw  or  remain,  began  a  series  of 

119 


fflowcr 


indefinite,  birdlike  movements  which  resulted 
in  a  gradual  approach  to  the  open  door,  and 
rinding  that  this  tendency  to  depart  met  with 
no  opposition  from  either  Eunice  or  Father 
Norman,  she  presently  bowed  herself  out,  and 
went  on  her  way,  leaving  the  proprieties  to  be 
cared  for  by  a  typewriter  who  was  at  work  in 
the  room  hard  by. 

Father  Norman  meanwhile  had  looked  into 
Eunice's  still  colorless  face  with  a  question 
unspoken  on  his  lips,  when  she  asked,  ' '  Am  I 
taking  you  away  from  what  you  have  to  do  ? 
Please  send  me  away  if  I  am  troublesome." 

"You  are  not  troublesome,"  he  said  gently, 
and  laying  a  small,  curiously  chased  watch  on 
the  palm  of  his  hand  he  added,  "I  have  just 
ten  minutes  before  my  lecture.  Now  tell  me 
if  there  is  anything  I  can  do  for  you,  Eunice 
Herendean,"  and  he  smiled  as  he  spoke  her 
name  thus,  and  said  :  "Your  family  at  Whip- 
pany  infected  me  with  your  own  beautiful 
habit  of  speech,  and  it  seems  impossible  to 
use  the  term  in  speaking  of  you  that  I  should 
of  others. ' ' 

The  emphasis  on  the  last  word  seemed  to 
place  Eunice  and  her  kin  on  an  indefinitely 
higher  plane  than  the  rest  of  society,  and  re- 
newed her  courage  sensibly.  Perhaps,  then, 
she  was  somebody,  after  all. 
120 


a  "QCiinfc  flower 

"  Is  there  anyway,"  she  began,  lifting  hex 
dark,  serious  eyes  to  his, ' '  that  any  one  like  me, 
who  is  not  really  a  Friend  any  more  at  heart, 
and  they  know  it,  Friends  do,  and  are  not  nice 
about  it,"  she  went  on  confusedly,  but  still 
making  her  meaning  clear,  "  any  way  that  a 
person  like  that  can  stop  being  a  Friend  and 
become  one  of  your  church?"  and  Eunice's 
voice  sank  lower,  as  if  she  almost  feared  to  hear 
herself  pronounce  the  last  words. 

"  There  is  away,"  Father  Norman  answered 
steadily.  There  was  a  strange  conflict  of  feel- 
ing going  on  within  him,  by  no  means  betrayed 
by  his  quiet  words.  At  first,  as  soon  as  he  had 
perceived  the  nature  of  Eunice's  errand,  a  deep 
reluctance  to  conform  to  it  had  risen  within 
him. 

Ever  since  he  had  left  her  at  Whippany, 
moved  by  motives  which  she  was  farthest  from 
suspecting,  Francis  Norman  had  held  in  his 
heart  as  a  possession  unspeakably  precious,  the 
image  of  the  young  Quaker  girl  in  her  Puritan 
simplicity  and  quaint  unworldliness.  He  had, 
or  thought  he  had,  won  such  mastery  over  him- 
self as  to  hold  this  thought  of  Eunice,  not  as 
of  a  woman  of  flesh  and  blood  and  alluring 
earthly  sweetness,  but  as  an  ideal,  a  poetic 
image,  passion-pure,  holy,  and  high.  All  the 
poet  in  him  was  stirred  into  quickened  life,  and 


Zl  TWUnD  Slower 

she  became  to  his  idealizing  fancy  as  Beatrice 
to  Dante — a  being  remote,  detached  from  the 
common  desires  of  men.  He  found  the  Flor- 
entine's words  as  if  written  of  this  nineteenth 
century  maiden  and  wondered  : 

How  chanceth  it 
That  flesh,  which  is  of  dust,  should  be  thus  pure  ? 

Again,  she  was  "the  lily  maid,"  the  shy, 
white  wild  flower  of  his  earlier  fancy,  but 
always,  in  his  thought,  she  was  distinct  from 
all  other  women  he  knew,  aloof  and  apart, 
essentially  by  reason  of  the  peculiar  separa- 
tion of  her  father's  faith  and  her  own. 
Doctrinally,  Maurice  in  hand,  he  could  have 
demolished  Quakerism  to  his  own  satisfaction 
at  any  time  in  half  an  hour  as  totally  untena- 
ble ;  but  to  the  artist  and  poet  in  him  the  em- 
bodiment of  Quakerism  in  Eunice  Herendean 
appealed  convincingly. 

Hence  it  was  that,  seeing  the  girl  herself  thus 
unexpectedly  before  him,  to  his  overmastering 
joy,  on  the  instant  all  the  official  proselyting 
zeal  of  the  priest  was  neutralized,  and  the  first 
instinctive  response  to  the  desire  of  Eunice  on 
Father  Norman's  part  was  a  pang  that  by  any 
means  she  could  become  other  than  he  had 
known  her.  The  thought  which  succeeded 
this  in  his  mind  was  not  less  natural  but  possi- 
122 


Zl  "WflinD  jflower 

bly  it  was  even  less  in  harmony  with  his  priestly 
character,  for  it  set  all  his  pulses  into  swifter 
motion,  and  awoke  a  vague  sweet  dread  in  his 
heart.  It  was  the  thought  that  if  Eunice 
should  carry  out  her  new  desire  into  actual  ful- 
fillment, he  should  inevitably,  in  a  way  beyond 
his  own  power  to  prevent,  be  brought  fre- 
quently into  a  personal  and  intimate  relation 
with  her,  that  of  the  pastor  to  one  of  the  chil- 
dren of  his  charge. 

"There  is  a  way,"  he  repeated,  adding 
slowly,  "if  you  are  quite  sure,  my  child,  that 
such  a  course  is  along  the  line  of  your  true  and 
earnest  conviction. ' ' 

"It  is,"  Eunice  answered  with  characteristic 
brevity,  being  bred  to  the  maxim,  "Let  your 
yea  be  yea,  and  your  nay,  nay. ' ' 

"There  were  some  tracts,"  Father  Norman 
said,  looking  now  with  grave,  untroubled  di- 
rectness into  Eunice's  eyes;  "I  asked  some 
one  to  give  them  to  you  when  I  left  Whippany. 
Have  you  been  reading  them  ?  " 

"Yes.  I  think  they  are  very  strong," 
Ennice  replied  naively. 

"  Very  good.  You  have  not  a  prayer  book, 
perhaps?  "  and  he  produced  a  small  copy. 

"Yes  ;  I  have  one,  and  I  know  it  very  well, 
now,  thank  you.  I  have  been  coming  to  St. 

Cuthbert's  to  church  all  the  fall." 
123 


ICUnfc  fflower 


Father  Norman  was  greatly  surprised.  "  If 
you  carry  out  such  a  plan  as  you  have  sug- 
gested, Eunice  Herendean,"  he  said  with  a 
touch  of  authority  almost  cold,  "I  must  insist 
that  it  shall  be  with  the  full  consent  of  your 
father,  for  whom  I  have  the  deepest  rever- 
ence." 

''I  think  my  father  will  consent,"  said 
Eunice  with  a  little  faltering  in  her  voice. 

Father  Norman  slipped  his  watch  back  into 
its  pocket  and  rose. 

"There  is  not  time  now  for  us  to  give  the 
attention  to  this  matter  that  it  deserves.  I  will 
send  you  by  post  certain  papers  suited  to  one 
considering  a  step  like  this.  If,  after  due  thought 
and  prayer,  you  are  fully  convinced  that  ours 
is  the  church  of  your  choice,  I  shall  of  course 
be  glad  to  receive  you  into  my  confirmation 
class. ' ' 

"Thank  you,"  said  Eunice  humbly,  as  she 
walked  toward  the  door. 

Father  Norman  paused,  and  stood  for  a 
moment,  with  bent  head,  considering. 

"In  that  case,"  he  began  again  thought- 
fully, "I  should  wish  to  see  you  once  before 
you  came  in  with  the  others,  to  examine  more 
particularly  the  grounds  of  your  personal  faith 
and  the  reasons  for  your  taking  this  step." 

Eunice  felt  a  renewed  trembling,  as  she 
124 


TSIlinO  Slower 


listened  to  these  words,  spoken  with  a  search- 
ing impressiveness  which  seemed  to  wither  the 
sudden  growth  of  her  motives  and  desires  to 
rubbish  before  her  eyes.  Father  Norman 
watched  her  steadily. 

"You  may,  perhaps,"  he  added,  "need  a 
little  more  instruction  in  certain  directions 
than  those  do  who  have  grown  up  in  the 
church.  We  will  arrange  it,  then,  if  it  is  con- 
venient to  you,"  he  proceeded,  "that  I  will 
receive  you  here  in  this  room,  which  is  at  my 
disposal  for  these  purposes,  a  week  from  to- 
day, at  four  o'clock.  And  I  must  ask  you, 
Eunice  Herendean,  to  bring  your  sister  with 
you,  or  some  other  member  of  your  family." 

Eunice  looked  up  quickly  in  surprise,  doubt- 
ing if  she  dared  ask  this  of  Mary.  Father 
Norman  smiled  slightly. 

"I  think  Mary  Herendean  will  come,"  he 
said  ;  "I  am  sure  she  will  if  you  convince  her 
that  this  is  a  matter  of  your  conscience  and 
conviction,"  and  with  that  he  bade  Eunice 
good-morning,  and  hastened  back  to  his  recita- 
tion room  for  the  half-hour  lecture  he  was  to 
give  at  noon. 

At  two  o'clock,  in  her  own  home,  Eunice 

met  her  sister  at  the  head  of  the  stairs,  as  they 

were  going  down  to  dinner.     The  hall  below 

appeared   quite   full  of  the   monthly  meeting 

125 


a  THHlno  flower 

guests,   among  whom  Moses  Herendean  was 
moving  about  with  gracious  hospitality. 

Eunice  had  changed  her  walking  clothes  for 
a  house  dress  of  shining  white  stuff,  fashioned 
with  a  plainness  not  exceeded  by  that  of  the 
sedate  Friends  who  had  just  passed  down  the 
staircase,  but  which  had  about  it  an  indefinable 
elegance  and  grace  of  outline. 

"Ah,  love  !"  cried  Mary,  stopping  to  look 
at  Eunice  with  fond  eyes,  "I  have  not  seen 
her  once  since  breakfast  !  She  has  put  on  the 
gown  that  makes  her  look  like  my  little  white 
Una,"  and  Mary  lifted  her  sister's  face  be- 
tween both  her  hands  and  kissed  her  forehead 
lightly.  "I  used  to  call  thee  that  before  thee 
went  away  to  school.  Does  thee  remember  ?  ' ' 

Eunice  remembered,  and  so,  with  their  arms 
around  each  other,  the  two  hastened  down  to 
greet  their  guests,  Mary  saying  in  an  under- 
tone on  the  way  :  "We  met  Francis  Norman 
on  our  way  home  from  meeting.  I  cannot 
think  why  he  looked  at  us  so  oddly. ' ' 

Eunice  did  not  reply. 

It  was  five  o'clock,  and  the  guests  had  all 
departed,  when  Eunice  was  summoned  to  the 
drawing  room  to  receive  Phoebe  Anthony  and 
Deborah  Longstreth,  who  had  come  in  due 
form  as  a  committee,  in  pursuance  of  the 
"mind  of  the  monthly  meeting." 
126 


fflower 


Mary  Herendean  was  very  anxious,  and  a 
tremulous  sigh  escaped  her  lips  as  she  followed 
Eunice  into  the  room  where  the  two  women 
waited  for  them  ;  but  Eunice's  manner  and 
bearing  were  quiet  and  confident.  She  re- 
ceived her  visitors  with  demure  self-possession, 
modest,  but  unabashed,  and  Mary  marveled  at 
the  courage  of  the  child. 

Phoebe  Anthony  bore  herself  with  a  certain 
military  stiffness  and  solemnity  ;  Deborah 
Longstreth,  who  was  a  woman  of  a  different 
strain  and  knew  the  motherless  girls  better, 
was  affectionate  and  kept  up  a  kind  of  apolo- 
getic purring  which  evidently  displeased  her 
senior. 

After  a  few  remarks  of  a  wide  and  general 
nature,  Phoebe  Anthony  said  pointedly  : 

'  '  It  has  come  to  the  knowledge  of  Friends, 
Eunice,  that  thee  has  been  in  attendance 
considerably  of  late,  at  a  certain  place  of 
worship  in  Minster  Street,  known  as  the  Church 
of  St.  Cuthbert,"  a  name  which  the  good 
woman  pronounced  with  marked  distaste. 

Eunice  had  moved  forward  a  little  in  her 
chair,  and  looked  with  cheerful  assent  into  the 
face  of  the  elderly  Friend. 

"Yes,  Phcebe  Anthony,"  she  replied  re- 
spectfully; "and  I  have  been  anxious  to 
signify  to  Friends  as  quickly  as  possible  the 
127 


B  TDdinO  Jflower 


change  in  my  views.  I  have  given  in  my  re- 
quest to  unite  with  St.  Cuthbert's,  and  may  I 
ask  thee  to  present  my  application  to  Friends 
to  drop  my  name  ?  ' ' 

For  a  moment  the  two  women  sat  aghast, 
staring  at  the  young  girl  who  had  so  summarily 
taken  the  matter  out  of  their  hands  into  her 
own.  There  was  nothing  of  impudence  or 
bravado  in  her  speech  or  bearing ;  she  was 
serious  and  gentle,  but  she  held  her  own  easily 
before  the  somewhat  emasculated  arguments 
which  Phoebe  Anthony  still  essayed  to  sum- 
mon. The  visitors  rose  and  made  the  best  of 
their  retreat,  but  Deborah  Longstreth  stopped 
at  the  door  and  purred  over  Eunice  a  little 
more  and,  kissing  her  after  a  motherly  fashion, 
whispered  with  confidential  indulgence,  "that 
perhaps  it  would  have  been  better  if  she 
had  gone  to  St.  Peter's  ;  it  was  pretty  high 
church  at  St.  Cuthbert's,  wasn't  it?"  and  so 
departed. 

In  the  hall,  Mary  stood  and  looked  in  silent 
wonder  at  Eunice. 

' '  I  did  not  dream  things  had  gone  so  far, ' ' 
she  said  slowly. 

' '  They  wouldn'  t  have  if  those  women  had 

let  me  alone,    Mary,"    replied   Eunice.      "I 

had  to  settle  them  some  way,  thee  sees.     They 

forced  me  to  bring  the  whole  thing  to  a  de- 

128 


a  "CCUnD  Jflower 

cision.  Will  father  mind  very  much,  does 
thee  think  ?  ' '  she  asked  anxiously. 

"  He  will  make  no  opposition,  I  know  that," 
Mary  answered  sadly. 

"Dear,  dear  father,"  murmured  Eunice 
softly  ;  "  I  thought  he  wouldn't." 


129 


XVI 

INSTER  STREET  rises  gradually  from 
the  square  near  St.  Cuthbert's 
Church,  and  after  a  walk  of  ten 
minutes  one  finds  the  faded  but  respectable 
rows  of  its  lower  level  giving  place  to  digni- 
fied detached  mansions,  the  notably  aristo- 
cratic houses  of  Coalport  twenty  years  ago. 
It  was  such  a  house,  separated  by  a  massive 
stone  coping  and  bit  of  lawn  from  the  street, 
that  Father  Norman  entered  with  a  latchkey 
at  sunset  of  that  same  Wednesday  afternoon. 

The  interior  of  the  house,  silent  and  dim, 
had  something  of  magnificence  in  its  stately 
richness,  although  its  appointments  spoke 
plainly  of  the  taste  of  an  earlier  day.  But 
the  fine  old  portraits  on  the  walls,  the  hand- 
some tapestries,  the  stately  staircase,  the  nota- 
ble carvings  of  the  furniture,  possessed  the 
intrinsic  quality  which  neither  age  nor  custom 
can  disparage. 

Father    Norman   passed    through    the   hall, 

stopping  for  a  moment  to  tell  a  man-servant, 

who  appeared  to  have  been  watching  for  him, 

that  he  was  to  go  out  to  dinner  ;  ascended  the 

130 


fflowet 


stairs  to  the  second  story,  which  was  silent  and 
empty,  as  he  had  found  the  rooms  below.  A 
central  gallery  gave  access  to  many  luxuriously 
appointed  chambers  ;  but,  taking  a  narrow 
passage  at  the  extreme  end,  Norman  found 
his  way  to  a  small  room  with  one  window 
overlooking  the  garden  at  the  rear  of  the 
house. 

The  floor  of  this  room  was  bare  ;  a  single 
light  burned  upon  a  desk,  above  which  hung  a 
crucifix,  the  same  which  had  hung  in  the  room 
at  the  Whippany  Inn.  A  porcelain  reproduc- 
tion of  Murillo's  St.  Anthony  receiving  the 
infant  Christ,  was  the  sole  ornament  of  the 
room,  which  had  for  its  furnishings  a  lining  of 
crowded  bookcases  around  the  walls,  a  narrow 
iron  bed,  a  Savonarola  chair,  and  a  prie-dieu. 

Laying  his  shovel  hat  and  greatcoat  aside, 
Father  Norman  seated  himself  at  his  desk,  laid 
a  memorandum  book  open  before  him,  and 
occupied  himself  for  twenty  minutes  in  copy- 
ing certain  notes  from  it  into  a  larger  book  of 
the  same  nature.  His  motions  were  firm, 
quick,  and  definite,  those  of  a  man  of  energy 
and  purpose,  working  clearly  and  pointedly  on 
familiar  ground,  but  when  the  process  of  copy- 
ing and  filling  out  his  parish  notes  was  accom- 
plished, a  certain  change  came  over  the  man, 
both  in  his  face  and  in  the  expression  of  his 


fftower 


attitude.  His  head  rested  upon  one  hand, 
and  in  his  eyes  a  musing,  brooding  dreaminess 
became  dominant. 

He  sat  thus,  motionless  for  several  moments, 
with  something  like  a  smile  on  his  mouth,  and 
then  suddenly  he  rose  and  locked  his  door ; 
then  returning  to  his  desk  he  opened  a  low 
drawer  and  from  it  took  a  sheet  of  common 
water-color  board  which  bore  a  hasty  and  half- 
finished  sketch.  Father  Norman  placed  this 
sketch  upon  his  desk,  beneath  the  drop-light, 
then  stepping  back  a  pace  or  two  he  regarded 
it  steadily,  with  critical  scrutiny  in  which  some 
emotional  element  was  curiously  mingled. 
The  sketch  showed  a  dark-haired  girl  in  a 
white  dress  of  straight,  severe  outline,  passing 
through  a  dusky  wood,  where  the  trees  were 
like  the  tall  columns  of  a  cathedral.  The  girl 
held  her  hands  clasped  and  dropped  before 
her,  her  head  was  lifted  on  its  slender,  stem- 
like  throat,  the  eyes  were  startled,  large,  and 
dark,  like  the  eyes  of  a  fawn.  The  foreground 
had  been  roughly  washed-in,  the  detail  was 
incomplete,  but  on  the  margin  below,  in  Father 
Norman's  handwriting,  were  the  lines  : 

"  Thou  mystic  spirit  of  the  wood, 

Why  that  ethereal  grace  that  seems 
A  vision  of  our  actual  good, 

Linked  with  the  land  of  dreams?  " 
I32 


a  Wind  Slower 

The  lonely  man  hung  long  over  this  picture, 
which,  for  all  its  marks  of  haste  and  incom- 
pleteness, bore  the  signal  impress  of  artistic 
grace  and  poetic  conception.  As  he  looked, 
his  face  relaxed  its  wonted  grave  austerity,  old 
lines  seemed  lost,  and  new  and  gentler  looks 
came  out  as  if  from  some  deep,  unguessed 
springs  of  consciousness.  Then,  with  swift 
recollection,  the  half-smile  died  from  his  face, 
the  sketch  was  hastily  replaced  among  old 
papers  in  the  drawer  and  locked  away  again, 
but  the  hands  that  touched  it  did  so  with 
reverent  tenderness. 

Seven  o'clock  found  the  rector  of  St.  Cuth- 
bert's  one  of  a  dinner  company  of  twelve  at 
the  new  and  splendid  residence  of  Mr.  Horatio 
Barringer. 

This  function  was  of  high  significance,  eccle- 
siastic as  well  as  social,  for  the  guest  of  honor 
was  no  less  a  person  than  the  newly  elected 
bishop,  who  was  passing  through  Coalport  on 
a  pastoral  visitation  to  the  western  part  of  the 
diocese,  and  had  been  waylaid  and  captured 
after  no  little  finessing  by  Mrs.  Barringer,  who 
was  distantly  related  to  his  wife. 

While   Mrs.    Barringer   had  conducted  the 

movements  resulting  in  the  visible  victory  of 

the  evening's  event,  it  was  her  elder  daughter 

Florence  who   had  seen   the   opportunity,   its 

'33 


jflowet 


significance  and  possibility,  and  whose  initia- 
tive her  mother  had  readily  followed.  The  re- 
lation between  the  late  bishop  and  the  rector 
of  St.  Cuthbert's  had  become  considerably 
strained  in  consequence  of  the  latter' s  ritual- 
istic bent,  which  was  regarded  by  his  superior 
as  excessive  and  undesirable,  and  likely  to  lead 
to  various  difficulties  and  to  issues  greatly  to 
be  deprecated.  So  pronounced  had  this  feel- 
ing become  that  the  year  before  he  died  the 
bishop  had  refused  his  annual  visitation  to  the 
church  of  St.  Cuthbert's,  and  Father  Norman's 
position  had  been  embarrassing  in  the  extreme. 
It  had  become  a  matter  of  prime  importance, 
as  Florence  Barringer,  who  had  not  a  little 
statesmanship,  clearly  saw,  to  capture  the  new 
bishop  in  two  senses  as  speedily  as  possible, 
before  steps  were  taken  which  could  not  be  re- 
traced. Hence  this  dinner,  where  it  well  be- 
hooved Father  Norman  to  make  the  best  of 
his  opportunities  and  establish  himself  be- 
times in  his  bishop's  favor. 

The  occasion  was  a  brilliant  one.  The  great 
dining  room  was  a  marvel  of  chaste  and  har- 
monious splendor,  radiant  with  softly  tinted 
lights,  with  exquisite  flowers,  and  sumptuous 
service  fit  for  a  bishop  or  a  palace.  The 
bishop  was  suave  and  gracious,  a  man  of  beau- 
tiful, flexible  dignity,  and  a  capital  raconteur. 
'34 


21  ICltnJ)  Jflower 

The  host  and  hostess  rejoiced  in  their  high 
privilege,  which  reached  a  series  of  climaxes 
when  the  bishop  from  time  to  time  would  find 
occasion  to  say,  "You  know,  Mrs.  Barringer, 
Matilda  always  says," — or  Matilda  does,  or 
desires,  or  whatever  else  of  a  desirable  nature 
might  be  found  to  link  the  present  glory  to  the 
somewhat  modest  past  through  the  person  of 
Matilda,  wife  of  the  bishop  and  third  cousin 
of  Mrs.  Barringer. 

Grace  Barringer,  as  younger  daughter,  was 
modest  and  sweet  in  the  most  recherche  version 
of  white  muslin  and  ribbons  attainable,  but 
her  sister  Florence  wore  a  Worth  gown  of  satin 
and  lace,  and  was  as  stately  and  beautiful  as 
some  court  lady  in  the  splendid  days  of  the 
Renaissance.  Father  Norman  had  never  seen 
her  when  her  beauty  and  grace  were  so  con- 
vincing and  even  dazzling,  and  when  she  spoke 
to  him  the  triumphant  brilliancy  of  her  eyes 
and  smile  were  softened,  and  she  walked  beside 
him  into  the  dining  room  with  a  gentle,  linger- 
ing step,  and  a  touch  upon  his  arm  which  said 
that  to  him  she  was  after  all  "a  soft,  sweet 
woman,"  and  not  a.  grand e  dame. 

As  for  Norman  himself,  it  had  apparently 

not  entered  into  his  heart  to  conceive  that  this 

was  his  chance  to  capture  the  bishop  ;  but  the 

thing  which  he  might  have  failed  to  do  of  set 

135 


a  TIDUnO  Jtowec 

purpose  or  design,  befell  as  in  the  very  nature 
of  things,  simply  from  the  personality  of  the 
two  men. 

The  distinction  of  Norman's  person  and 
manner,  the  refinement  of  his  mind  and 
speech,  the  unmistakable  spiritual  elevation 
which  visibly  dwelt  in  him,  united  with  his 
highly  developed  poetic  and  artistic  nature  to 
draw  all  men  like-minded  irresistibly  to  him. 
The  bishop,  who  had  been  warned  of  the  rec- 
tor of  St.  Cuthbert's  as  a  somewhat  dangerous 
and  troublesome  factor  to  be  dealt  with  in  the 
problems  of  his  diocese,  was  disarmed  at  once 
when  he  met  and  talked  with  the  man.  He 
compared  him  instantly  with  the  typical  parish 
priest,  with  the  plodding,  mechanical,  unillu- 
minated  routine  men  he  had  met  hitherto,  and 
his  perception,  keener  than  that  of  his  prede- 
cessor, leaped  at  once  to  the  prestige  which  a 
man  like  Norman  conferred  upon  his  diocese. 
And  besides,  the  ritualists  were  bound  to  get 
the  best  of  it  in  the  next  ten  years  ;  they  were 
on  the  incoming  wave  which  would  soon  be  at 
its  flood  in  this  country,  as  it  was  in  England. 
Norman  might  have  the  fever  a  little  intensely, 
but  it  was  not  dangerous.  Let  him  hear  con- 
fessions if  he  liked. 

The  bishop  excused  himself  early,  but  not 
before,  in  a  few  casual  words,  quite  as  a  matter 
1*6 


B  lUinO  tf  lower 

of  course,  he  had  fixed  the  date  of  his  visita- 
tion of  St.  Cuthbert's  with  Norman.  Florence 
Barringer  heard  what  he  said.  After  this  he 
might  go,  as  far  as  she  was  concerned.  He 
had  come,  had  seen,  and  she  had  conquered. 
She  turned  to  Norman  with  eyes  radiant  with 
triumph,  the  bishop  being  gone,  and  held  out 
both  her  white  hands  in  joyous  congratulation. 
His  manner  was  perfectly  quiet,  without  ex- 
citement or  elation,  but  he  met  her  enthusi- 
asm with  his  rare,  cordial  smile,  which  said 
more  than  other  men's  raptures,  she  fancied. 

"You  have  won,"  she  said  under  her 
breath,  ' '  and  oh,  I  cannot  tell  you  how 
happy  I  am  !  " 

Father  Norman  bowed  a  slightly  formal  ac- 
knowledgment. There  came  a  faintly  per- 
ceptible anxiety  into  Miss  Barringer' s  face. 

' '  I  wanted  to  bring  this  about  if  it  were 
possible,  in  time,  you  know." 

"You  have  been  everything  that  is  kind," 
was  Father  Norman's  reply  ;  "it  is  altogether 
your  doing,  Miss  Barringer,"  and  at  her  mo- 
tion he  led  the  way  to  a  window  niche  where, 
in  the  shadow  of  some  tall  ferns,  they  sat  down 
together  to  discuss  the  event,  and  all  that  hung 
upon  it. 

Tom  Ripley  meantime  had  dropped  in  and 
was  talking  with  Grace  Barringer,  not  having 


B  TlHltnD  flower 

heard,    ne    said,    of  the   evening's    function, 
which  had  been  quite  impromptu. 

' '  Ah,  you  may  say  so  ! "  protested  Grace, 
"but  I  do  not  believe  you.  You  know  by 
instinct  where  Father  Norman  is  to  be  found  ; 
you  follow  him,  just  as  a  bit  of  steel  is  drawn 
to  a  magnet. ' ' 

"Then  here  goes,"  was  the  laughing  an- 
swer, and  the  young  fellow  started  to  cross  the 
room. 

' '  Tom, ' '  whispered  Grace  laughing,  and 
touching  his  sleeve,  "for  mercy's  sake  keep 
yourself  out  of  Father  Norman's  sight !  If  he 
sees  you  he  will  be  given  over  to  all  the  de- 
vices and  desires  of  the  parish  again.  Can't 
you  let  him  alone  five  minutes  ?  Look  at  Flo. 
Isn'  t  she  in  the  seventh  heaven  ?  She  has 
him  all  to  herself,  and  his  mood  must  surely 
be  melting  in  a  degree  after  all  she  has  done 
for  him.  Or  do  you  suppose  he  doesn't  know 
it  ?  His  head  is  always  so  high  above  all  our 
poor  little  human  considerations.  Perhaps 
he  wanted  to  be  made  a  martyr  of,  who 
knows  ? ' ' 

"How  absurd,"  returned  Ripley ;  "the 
bishop  is  a  brick,  and  I'm  awfully  glad,  I  tell 
you  ;  but  dear  me,  Grace,  any  bishop  with  half 
an  eye  would  try  to  conciliate  Father  Norman. 
There  is  not  his  equal  in  this  State,  if  there  is 
138 


flower 


in  the  country,  and  I'll  tell  you  I  believe  he  is 
going  to  revolutionize  the  church  in  the  United 
States,  if  you  give  him  time.  '  ' 

"Oh,  certainly,  that  is  a  very  moderate  ex- 
pectation from  you,  Tom,  I  should  think. 
But  isn't  Flo  royal  to-night  ?  That  gown  posi- 
tively marks  an  epoch.  '  ' 

'  '  Simply  stunning.     Where  from  ?  '  ' 

"Worth." 

"  I  thought  so.  You  tell  her  with  my  love 
to  continue  to  patronize  him.  She  is  magnifi- 
cent —  nothing  less.  Ah,  Mrs.  Knight!"  as 
that  lady  joined  Grace,  "good-evening.  I 
am  an  unbidden  guest,  but  Miss  Grace  has 
taken  pity  on  me,  and  lets  me  stay,  since  the 
grand  central  luminary  has  set,  so  to  speak.  '  ' 

'  '  Certainly,  '  '  retorted  Grace  ;  '  '  after  sunset 
the  small,  little  twinkling  stars,  like  Mr.  Rip- 
ley,  come  out,  the  satellites,  you  know,  Mrs. 
Knight,  of  our  great  lights,"  and  she  glanced 
significantly  across  the  room  at  Father  Nor- 
man, who  had  left  his  seat  now,  and  was  be- 
ginning to  look  about  vaguely  for  his  hostess. 

"  Jupiter  has  risen,  Tom,"  she  added  sau- 
cily ;  "  begin  to  revolve.  '  ' 

When  presently  Father  Norman  joined  the 
group,  and  stood  a  little    apart   listening   to 
their  conversation,  with  Miss  Barringer  by  his 
side,  Mrs.  Knight  was  saying  : 
139 


a  "Gains  Slower 

"Oh,  Mr.  Ripley,  you  always  know  people 
and  who  their  grandfathers  were,  and  whom 
their  second  cousins  married  ;  I  wonder  if  you 
can' t  tell  me  who  the  fair  unknown  is,  whom 
Mr.  Knight  and  I  have  been  speculating  upon 
since  Sunday." 

Tom  Ripley  bowed  ceremoniously.  ' '  I  am 
at  your  service,  madam  ;  say  on,"  he  replied 
with  oracular  brevity. 

"Well,  this  girl,  quite  young,  nineteen  per- 
haps, passed  us  first  on  the  avenue.  The 
sweetest  thing  I  ever  saw" — Mrs.  Knight  was 
rapid  and  emphatic  and  given  to  enthusiasm — 
' '  in  gray  ! ' ' 

Tom  Ripley  closed  one  eye  and  put  his  head 
on  one  side  reflectively.  "She  was  beautifully 
dressed,  Mr.  Ripley.  I  know  you  are  a  judge, 
and  therefore  mention  this  little  fact.  Her 
style  was  severe,  and  really  rather  exquisite, 
and  altogether  she  had  a  quite  unusual  dis- 
tinction, don't  you  know?" 

Ripley  nodded  with  an  air  of  profound  sagac- 
ity, and  as  one  whose  general  informedness 
would  not  be  found  wanting. 

"Oh,  yes,  I  forgot  her  eyes  !  "  Mrs.  Knight 
interjected  hastily  ;  "big,  dark,  pathetic,  spiri- 
tuelle .'  Mr.  Knight  declares  they  haunt  him. 
I  am  more  interested  to  know  who  is  her  dress- 
maker. Well,  all  this  wouldn't  matter,  bul 
140 


H  TJCUn&  fflower 


you  see,  afterward  when  we  were  at  church, 
in  she  came  and  sat  with  Miss  Archibald,  not 
far  from  us,  you  know,  and  acted  as  if  she  had 
always  been  there  ;  but  I  never  saw  her  before. 
Now  who  can  she  be  ?  " 

"There  is  no  particular  mystery  about  it, 
Mrs.  Knight,"  remarked  Florence  Barringer, 
from  her  place  beside  Father  Norman.  Her 
tone  was  peculiarly  cold,  even  slighting.  "I 
am  sorry  to  demolish  your  little  romance,  but 
you  must  mean  a  Miss  Herendean,  who  lives 
out  beyond  you  on  Willow  Street. ' ' 

"Oh,  the  little  Quaker  girl,"  commented 
Tom  Ripley,  with  languid  surprise  and  obvious 
loss  of  interest ;  "I  did  not  recognize  your  de- 
scription." 

"Willow  Street!"  cried  Mrs.  Knight  with 
a  circumflex  accent,  evidently  disappointed  ; 
' '  not  a  stranger  in  Coalport,  then  ?  ' ' 

"  Not  at  all,"  said  Miss  Barringer  carelessly  ; 
' '  and  really  she  is  not  anybody  in  particular 
as  far  as  I  have  ever  heard,  is  she,  Tom  ?  It 
is  rather  odd  too,  her  coming  to  our  church, 
for  they  are  a  Quaker  family." 

"  Dear,  dear,"  and  Mrs.  Knight  sighed,  "  to 
think  that  I  must  tell  my  husband  that  our 
beautiful  gray  inconnue  is  a  nobody  after  all  !  " 

"  Nobody,  perhaps,  to  those  who  do  not 
know  her,  Mrs.  Knight,  but  not  wholly  desti- 
141 


B  TOatno  Slower 

tute  of  distinction  to  those  who  do.  Do  not 
be  too  deeply  disappointed." 

It  was  Father  Norman  who  said  these  words, 
with  a  touch  of  grave  irony.  His  voice  and 
manner  were,  as  usual,  quiet,  courteous,  re- 
served, giving  the  impression  of  one  who  was 
but  a  spectator  in  other  men's  matters;  but 
Florence  Barringer,  standing  at  his  side, 
glanced  up  into  his  face  and  noted  the  un- 
wonted kindling  of  his  eyes  with  an  intuitive 
sense  of  dismay. 

What  availed  the  conquest  of  a  bishop? 
What  the  rescue  of  his  own  cause  ?  To  what 
purpose  the  lustre  and  brilliancy  of  to-night's 
high  feast? 

Cold  at  her  heart  she  knew,  although  how 
she  could  not  tell,  that  her  own  cause  was  lost 


142 


XVII 

\T  was  between  the  hours  of  four  and 
five  on  the  following  Wednesday. 
Mary  and  Eunice  Herendean  were 
seated  with  Father  Norman  beside  a  table  in 
a  reception  room  at  the  parish  house  of  St. 
Cuthbert's,  and  the  doors  were  shut.  The 
table  was  covered  with  books  and  pamphlets, 
to  which  the  clergyman  occasionally  referred 
as  he  set  forth  to  his  catechumen  the  tenets 
and  theories  of  the  church.  Eunice  sat  before 
him,  her  hands  clasped  in  her  lap,  looking 
steadfastly  into  his  face  as  he  spoke.  Her  sister 
was  seated  on  the  other  side  of  the  table,  and 
removed  from  it  a  short  distance. 

Father  Norman  as  he  spoke  and  questioned 
looked  into  the  face  of  Eunice  searchingly  but 
kindly,  and  from  time  to  time  his  grave  face 
relaxed  into  a  smile  of  gentleness  and  en- 
couragement. Mary  he  seemed  hardly  to  have 
observed,  after  having  welcomed  her  with  due 
courtesy  on  her  coming.  Now,  however,  as 
he  passed  on  from  minor  matters  to  the  cardi- 
nal doctrines  of  his  system,  Father  Norman's 
own  profound  reverence  of  nature,  and  his 
143 


21  <Wflin&  fflower 

high  sense  of  the  mystic  sacredness  of  the  su- 
preme rites  into  which  it  was  his  duty  to  indoc- 
trinate his  pupil,  dominated  his  manner,  his 
looks,  and  even  the  tones  of  his  voice.  He 
spoke  in  lower  tones,  with  deeper  emphasis, 
and  with  more  authority ;  his  face  was  grave, 
even  to  solemnity,  his  manner  marked  by  sup- 
pressed intensity  of  feeling. 

Eunice  watched  and  listened  with  bated 
breath  and  childlike  awe,  and  bowed  her  head 
meek  and  acquiescent  as  he  said  :  "  This  doc- 
trine of  the  Real,  objective  Presence  in  the 
eucharistic  sacrifice  is  the  very  center  and 
core  of  our  ritual  and  our  faith.  Understand 
me  ;  under  the  forms  of  bread  and  wine,  the 
priest  really  offers  upon  the  altar  the  holy  Body 
and  Blood  of  our  Lord  in  perpetual  sacrifice  to 
God.  This  it  is  which  continues  to  men  the 
benefits  procured  upon  the  cross.  So,  my 
child,  the  sacrifice  of  the  cross  and  the  sacri- 
fice of  the  mass  are  one,  and " 

At  this  moment  Father  Norman  was  inter- 
rupted by  a  sudden,  hasty  movement  on  the 
part  of  Mary  Herendean.  She  had  risen  from 
her  chair ;  a  glance  at  her  face  showed  that 
every  vestige  of  color  had  left  it,  while  the 
light  in  her  eyes  was  concentrated  into  some- 
thing like  white  fire.  She  did  not  speak,  but 
passed  rapidly  behind  Eunice  toward  the  door. 
144 


H  TiminD  Jflowcr 

When  she  reached  the  door  Father  Norman 
was  at  her  side,  confronting  her ;  the  hand 
which  she  extended  to  open  the  door  was 
touched  and  turned  aside  by  his  hand,  which 
was  laid  quietly  upon  the  knob.  Mary  Heren- 
dean's  hand  fell  by  her  side,  and  she  trembled 
as  she  stood,  from  head  to  foot. 

"I  wish  you  to  let  me  go,  Francis  Nor- 
man," she  said  in  a  low  voice,  inaudible  to 
Eunice  ;  "  I  cannot  stay  to  hear  the  things  you 
are  teaching  my  little  sister.  I  think  you  for- 
get that  we  have  been  taught  to  believe  that 
our  God  is  a  Spirit,  to  be  worshiped  in  spirit, 
— in  truth." 

Father  Norman  only  looked  very  thought- 
fully at  Mary  as  she  said  this,  without  speak- 
ing, realizing  that  he  had  to  do  with  a  nature 
of  profound  moral  earnestness. 

"What  you  are  saying  is  appalling,  incredi- 
ble. Worse,  it  is  not  true."  Her  voice  sank 
lower  in  the  poignancy  of  her  passionate  in- 
dignation. 

Norman's  face  changed  only  by  a  shade  of 
pallor,  its  composure  was  unmoved.  The  mat- 
ter in  hand  for  him  was  not  to  convince  Mary 
Herendean's  intellect,  there  was  no  time  for 
that,  but  to  control  her  will  and  make  it  con- 
form to  his  own. 

''Pardon  me,  I  think  your  place  is  here, " 


a  'QCUn&  fflowet 

he  said  sternly.  "Are  you  not  acting  under  a 
misapprehension?  We  are  not  here  on  ac- 
count of  your  convictions,  your  belief  or  dis- 
belief, Mary  Herendean,  but  your  sister's." 

There  was  a  pause  in  which  the  two  faced 
each  other  steadily,  while  a  little  color  returned 
to  Mary's  face, 

"Since  you  perceive,"  Father  Norman  con- 
tinued slowly,  "as  I  am  sure  you  do,  the  pur- 
pose of  your  presence  here  more  clearly,  I  am 
sure  you  will  not  refuse  to  return  to  your  place 
with  your  sister,"  and  he  bowed  with  a  motion 
of  his  right  hand  toward  her  former  place, 
which  was  gentle,  conciliatory  even,  and  yet 
the  action  of  one  who  instinctively  expected 
obedience. 

The  tempest  of  passion  and  protest  which 
had  swept  through  the  girl's  strong  nature  died 
away  under  the  steady,  quiet  mastery  of  Nor- 
man's eyes  and  voice,  but  her  conviction  re- 
mained unchanged.  The  fire  in  her  eyes  was 
quenched  with  unshed  tears,  and  her  lips 
trembled  as  she  said  :  "I  must  yield,  I  see  it 
plainly.  Yes,  I  will  go  back ;  but  I  have  told 
you  the  truth,  and  some  time  the  Spirit  will 
make  even  this  clear  to  you." 

With  quiet  dignity  she  returned  to  her  place 
and  so  sat  without  a  motion  or  word  through 
the  remainder  of  the  interview,  in  which  Eunice 
146 


B  <GCltn&  Slower 

acquitted  herself  with  admirable  docility  and 
teachableness. 

The  doctrine  of  transubstantiation  had  no 
difficulties  for  her. 

On  their  way  home  Eunice  broke  a  long 
silence,  saying  to  Mary  :  "I  don't  know  what 
thee  was  so  stirred  up  about,  but  I  never  saw 
thee  so  angry  in  my  life,  except  once  when 
Ralph  beat  Beppo. " 

"Thee  need  except  nothing,  Eunice,"  Mary 
said  quickly ;  "I  never  was  so  angry  in  my 
life." 

"Well,  I'm  afraid  Father  Norman  will  think 
thee  has  the  worst  disposition  in  the  world, 
when  thee  really  has  the  best,  unless  thee  is 
terribly  provoked.  Does  thee  remember  his 
coming  in  that  night  at  Whippany,  when  thee 
lost  thy  temper  so  about  my  going  to  the  serv- 
ice at  Torridge  ?  ' ' 

"It  makes  absolutely  no  difference,  Eunice, 
what  Father  Norman  thinks  of  me,"  Mary  re- 
plied ;  "  but  in  fact  he  never  does  think  of  me 
at  all.  I  have  never  interested  him  in  the 
least." 

"  Thee  has  always  opposed  him,  thee  sees," 
rejoined  Eunice,  "and  he  has  seen  thy  worst 
side  and  has  had  to  make  thee  give  up." 

"No  matter,  Eunice  ;  please  don't  talk 
about  it  anymore,"  said  Mary  hastily;  but  her 


fflowcr 


cheeks  had  grown  crimson,  and  there  was  an 
expression  in  her  eyes  which  Eunice  did  not 
understand,  and  which  she  had  never  seen  in 
them  before. 

As  they  entered  the  house  on  their  return, 
Mary  seeing  letters  lying  on  a  tray  on  the  hall 
rack,  took  them  up,  and  handing  one  to  Eunice 
said  casually:  "Another  letter  from  Derby, 
from  Cousin  Cynthia  for  thee.  She  is  getting 
to  be  a  very  devoted  correspondent,  isn't  she? 
I  never  fancied  you  two  would  have  so  much 
in  common,"  and  Mary  went  on  into  the  din- 
ing room  to  give  a  housekeeper's  glance  at  the 
preparations  for  dinner. 

Eunice,  whose  color  had  deepened  while 
Mary  spoke,  had  taken  her  letter  and  now  ran 
lightly  upstairs  to  her  room,  which  she  entered, 
locking  the  door  behind  her.  With  quick, 
eager  motion  she  broke  the  seal  of  the  envel- 
ope, and  drew  out  an  enclosed  letter  directed 
in  Ralph  Kidder's  handwriting  to  herself. 
This  letter  her  eyes  flew  over  with  devouring 
haste,  while  alternating  expressions  of  delight 
and  disturbance  passed  over  her  face. 

Ralph  supposed,  the  letter  said,  that  she 
would  shortly  hear  a  new  set  of  anathemas  pro- 
nounced upon  his  devoted  head  by  her  father, 
if  she  had  not  already  ;  but  she  must  be  steady, 
and  let  nothing  frighten  her.  He  had,  it  was 
148 


Jflower 


true,  unintentionally  overdrawn  his  account  at 
the  First  National  Bank  in  Coalport,  and  he 
found  himself  sufficiently  embarrassed  for  the 
moment,  but  it  was  a  small  matter,  and  would 
be  rectified  shortly. 

Possibly  he  had  been  a  little  extravagant,  for 
there  never  was  such  a  place  to  spend  money 
without  knowing  it,  as  New  York.  If  she  had 
only  been  there  with  him  he  would  have 
smothered  her  in  red  roses,  no  matter  what 
they  cost,  —  his  beautiful  little  lady-love,  —  and 
made  her  music-mad  as  he  was,  with  grand  opera. 
And  wouldn't  he  have  been  quite  right  to  do  it? 
etc.,  etc.,  at  which  turn  the  cloud  passed  from 
Eunice's  brow,  and  the  sun  came  out  again. 

There  was  only  time  to  read  the  letter  once, 
and  that  hastily,  a  letter  which  was  well  worth 
a  dozen  readings,  and  then  it  must  be  hidden 
well  and  wisely,  while  she  donned  her  white 
gown  and  hastened  down  to  dinner  with  her 
father  and  Mary. 

Mary  looked  worn  and  dispirited  at  dinner, 
and  excused  herself  soon  after  it  was  over,  and 
went  upstairs.  An  hour  later  she  came  down 
with  slow,  quiet  steps,  and  stood  for  a  little 
space  at  the  open  library  door,  looking  in. 
Her  father  was  sitting  in  his  great  arm-chair  be"- 
fore  the  open  fire,  his  profile  sharply  outlined 
by  the  light  of  the  red  coals  ;  there  was  little 
149 


B  "WfltnO  fflowcr 

light  besides  in  the  room.  At  his  feet  on  a  low 
stool  sat  Eunice,  in  her  lustrous  white  gown,  her 
head  resting  against  her  father's  knee  in  a  pen- 
sive, drooping  fashion.  The  old  man's  slen- 
der, delicate  hand  was  laid  upon  the  girl's  head. 
They  were  not  speaking,  but  they  were  together 
in  spirit,  and  a  tender  peace  rested  in  Moses 
Herendean's  brooding  eyes. 

Mary  watched  them  for  a  moment,  and  her 
eyes  filled  with  tears ;  then  she  turned  away,  a 
pang  unspeakable  at  her  heart. 

How  lovely  Eunice  was  ;  how  her  father's 
heart  delighted  in  her;  and  yet  just  now  she 
had  betrayed  all  of  spiritual  integrity  for  which 
he  had  lived  and  would  gladly  have  died  ;  she 
had  sold  her  birthright  without  so  much  as  a 
sigh  or  word  of  misgiving,  and  she  could  return 
and  sit  at  his  feet  in  that  pure  peace,  uncon- 
scious and  undisturbed. 

If  that  had  been  all  !  But  it  was  enough 
for  Mary  Herendean  that  night. 

In  his  room  in  the  Minster  Street  mansion, 
on  that  same  night,  Francis  Norman  kept  a 
long  unbroken  vigil.  The  interview  of  the  af- 
ternoon, with  its  varying  effect  upon  the  sisters, 
had  had  a  deeper  working  upon  him,  stirring 
within  him  keen  questionings  to  be  met  through 
the  long  hours  of  the  night  on  his  knees  with 
prayer  and  penance. 

150 


a  TJdinJ)  fflower 

The  words  of  Mary  Herendean,  swift  and 
piercing,  had  aroused  again  that  specter  of 
doubt  which  crouched  ever  at  his  door,  ready 
to  spring  upon  him  and  close  with  his  soul  in 
fierce  encounter.  She  had  stood  before  him 
like  an  accusing  angel,  or  like  a  stern  Nemesis, 
confronting  him  with  the  guilty  misgivings  of 
his  under  consciousness — that  whisper  sternly 
rejected,  yet  never  quite  stilled,  even  in  mo- 
ments of  highest  exaltation  in  the  performance 
of  his  public  duties. 

But  beside  Mary  Herendean,  and  not  to  be 
divided  from  her  in  his  thought,  stood  the 
gentler  figure  of  her  young  sister,  never  so  en- 
dearing as  in  this  aspect  of  devout  religious 
dedication.  Not  to  recall  that  clear  face,  with 
its  "paleness  of  the  pearl,"  the  soft,  appeal- 
ing eyes,  the  childlike  mouth,  the  simple,  un- 
studied words,  so  far  from  the  conventional 
phraseology  to  which  his  ears  were  accus- 
tomed ? — to  forget  all  that  ? — banish  it  from 
his  memory,  cast  out  from  his  heart  the  lovely 
vision — was  it  in  his  mortal  flesh  to  do  this  ? 

The  night  wore  on  in  its  two-fold  struggle. 
When  the  dawn  came  Francis  Norman,  his  face 
gray  and  haggard,  rose  from  his  knees,  took 
from  its  place  the  sketch  of  Eunice  Herendean 
which  he  had  made  in  the  summer,  and  burned 
it  on  his  cold,  unlighted  hearth. 


B  WinD  fflower 

The  following  afternoon  found  Father  Nor- 
man in  "  lower  Coalport,"  going  about  among 
the  wretched  tenements  of  the  miners  in  pur- 
suance of  his  pastoral  labors. 

Coming  down  from  the  garret  abode  of  Mrs. 
Ahern,  the  helpless  and  thriftless  mother  of  a 
small  boy,  Joey,  whom  he  had  recently  discov- 
ered as  possessed  of  a  wonderful  voice,  and 
literally  nothing  else,  Norman  reached  the 
outer  air  of  the  dreary  alley  with  his  face  pallid 
from  the  odors  of  the  place,  and  from  an  in- 
ward sinking  resulting  from  prolonged  fasting 
and  his  late  vigil. 

As  he  stood  for  an  instant  in  the  doorway,  a 
man  who  was  passing  at  a  swinging,  resolute 
gait,  glanced  at  him,  wheeled  around  abruptly, 
and  stopped  short  in  front  of  him  on  the  dirty, 
broken  pavement. 

"  Father  Norman  !  "  he  exclaimed.  "  Glad 
to  see  you  ;  but  you're  looking  badly.  Going 
home?  All  right,"  and  Norman  joining  him, 
they  walked  down  the  alley  together. 

This  man,  known  as  the  Reverend  James 
Hope,  a  title  to  which  Father  Norman  would 
not,  however,  have  admitted  his  claim,  as  he 
was  not  of  the  Church,  was  a  familiar  figure  in 
this  part  of  Coalport,  having  established  here 
a  Christian  work  among  the  miners'  families. 
In  person  he  was  big  and  muscular,  a  robust, 
152 


fflower 


virile,  thoroughly  masculine  man,  who  could 
hold  his  own  physically  with  any  of  the  neigh- 
borhood ruffians,  as  they  very  well  knew  ;  but 
in  spirit  he  was  gentle,  winning,  and  devout. 
Father  Norman  liked  and  respected  Hope,  and 
the  two,  although  working  on  widely  different 
lines,  and  with  absolutely  divergent  ecclesias- 
tical theories,  not  infrequently  met  and  took 
counsel  together  concerning  the  sorrows  of  the 
very  poor. 

James  Hope  lived  half  a  mile  from  the 
Ahcrn  tenement,  and  when  the  two  men  had 
reached  the  house  he  said  cordially  :  "  Come 
up  and  have  some  tea  with  me,  Norman.  It 
would  be  a  great  pleasure  to  Mrs.  Hope  ;  hon- 
estly, it  would  do  her  all  sorts  of  good.  You 
know  she  hardly  ever  sees  people  now." 

Norman  was  glad  to  consent,  and  followed 
Hope  into  a  large,  well-lighted  room  on  the 
ground  floor,  where  a  company  of  women  and 
girls  were  breaking  up,  evidently  at  the  close  of 
a  sewing-school. 

''It's  the  girls  this  afternoon,"  Hope  re- 
marked ;  "boys  to-night." 

A  pretty  and  graceful  woman  who  was  in 
charge  of  the  gathering  glanced  at  him  across 
the  room  with  a  nod  and  smile.  Hope  tele- 
graphed with  signs  to  her  that  he  was  taking 
Norman  upstairs,  and  would  expect  her  to  fol- 
153 


H  imtnfc  fflower 

low  ;  she  caught  the  message  at  once,  and 
nodded  again  with  a  slight  flush  of  pleasure. 

A  few  rooms  upstairs  were  reserved  for  the 
present  use  of  the  Hopes  ;  otherwise  the  house 
was  given  up  to  the  purposes  of  their  neigh- 
borhood work.  These  rooms  were  furnished 
simply,  but  with  refinement  and  artistic  per- 
ception and  cozy  comfort.  There  were  excel- 
lent prints,  books  in  abundance,  and  a  dainty 
tea  service  stood  ready  for  the  afternoon  re- 
freshment. The  difference  between  this  place 
and  his  own  abode  came  instantly  before  Nor- 
man's mind.  Here  the  grace  of  a  woman's 
touch  was  everywhere,  a  touch  which  had 
made  a  home  in  these  dreary  surroundings, 
in  these  poor  rooms. 

Very  soon  Mrs.  Hope  came  in  and  took  her 
place  at  the  tea  table,  glad  to  see  Father  Nor- 
man, whom  she  knew  slightly,  but  gladder  to 
see  her  husband,  as  her  eloquent  eyes  could 
not  fail  to  tell  him.  She  made  their  tea  so 
quietly  that  Norman,  though  he  was  watching 
her,  did  not  see  her  do  it,  and  was  surprised  to 
find  the  big,  thin  blue  cup  in  his  hand,  how  he 
hardly  knew.  Refreshed  and  enlivened  by  the 
tea  and  bit  of  cake,  Norman  felt  a  new  com- 
fort and  ease,  and  a  vivid  sense  of  pleasure  in 
the  personality  of  his  companions.  How  per- 
fectly these  two  people  suited  one  another  • 
154 


fflower 


how  each  could  fill  up  what  the  other  lacked 
in  the  practical  work  of  life  ;  how  it  kept  a 
man  steady  in  purpose  and  happy  at  heart  to 
have  such  a  presence  and  smile  to  return  to, 
and  a  veritable  home,  if  it  were  only  two 
rooms  over  a  public  place  ! 

Meanwhile  Hope,  in  his  hearty  fashion,  was 
talking  on  about  the  difficulties  and  encourage- 
ments of  the  work,  and  proceeded  to  tell  Nor- 
man plainly  that  he  believed  more  and  more 
that  almsgiving  was  the  wrong  line  to  take  with 
these  people. 

"But,  my  dear  fellow,"  said  Norman  smil- 
ing, as  he  leaned  lazily  back  in  a  very  comfort- 
able chair,  "almsgiving  is  a  Christian  grace, 
and  it  is  absolutely  necessary  to  the  develop- 
ment of  our  wealthy  church-members.  They 
must  give  or  die,  don't  you  see  ?  " 

"  Then  let  them  give  to  agencies  which  will 
make  these  people  self-dependent,  give  them 
trades,  the  ability  to  work  and  earn  their  own 
living.  The  helplessness  of  the  girls  in  these 
families  is  the  worst  factor  of  the  whole  prob- 
lem. I  tell  you,  Father  Norman,  many  of 
these  rescue  efforts  are  rose  water  to  a  man 
mortally  sick.  We  have  got  to  go  behind 
these  measures  that  only  mend  the  results  a 
little  and  begin  at  the  foundation." 

Father  Norman  looked  thoughtfully  at  Hope. 


a  Idinfc  jflowcr 

The  grace  of  charity  had  not  come  to  him  in 
quite  this  rugged  and  severe  outline. 

"  But  surely  no  command  is  more  plainly  or 
more  frequently  impressed  in  the  New  Testa- 
ment than  that  of  feeding  the  hungry,  clothing 
the  poor,  giving  alms  of  such  things  as  we  pos- 
sess," he  returned. 

"  Very  well,  but  different  civilizations  de- 
mand different  adjustments  of  this  grace  of 
giving,  and  these  are  times  that  call  for  not 
less  bounty,  but  bounty  otherwise  applied. 
Father  Norman,  it  is  not  possible  for  you,  off 
there  in  Minster  Street,  with  all  the  beauty 
and  aristocracy  of  the  city  around  you,  to 
guess,  even  by  coming  down  here  once  in  a 
while,  what  the  temper  of  these  people  is,  and 
how  real  and  appalling  the  dangers  that  are 
deepening  upon  them,  and  through  them  upon 
us." 

"  Now,  James,  Father  Norman  is  tired,  and 
you  must  stop  talking  all  this  tiresome  shop," 
Mrs.  Hope  broke  in  gently.  "  Indeed,  I  get 
tired  myself  of  '  problems '  and  possibilities, 
and  it  would  do  us  good  to  forget  them  for  a 
while.  Father  Norman,  what  I  want  to  ask  is 
whether  you  have  seen  this  new  life  of  Pugin 
that  I  hear  so  much  about?" 

Yielding  to  her  initiative,  the  conversation 
turned    to  books  and  art,  and  at  the  end  of 
156 


B  mint)  fflowet 


half  an  hour  Father  Norman,  refreshed  in 
body  and  spirit,  took  a  half- reluctant  leave  of 
James  Hope  and  his  wife,  and  came  away. 

Was  such  a  marriage  as  this  to  be  thought  of 
as  a  lowering  of  the  religious  life  ?  Ah,  but 
Hope  was  not  a  priest,  only  a  ' '  minister. ' ' 
Still,  as  Norman  walked  home  in  the  twilight, 
he  was  half  minded  to  wish  he  had  not  de- 
stroyed that  sketch  in  the  early  morning. 


157 


XVIII 

JHE  winter  had  passed.  March  had 
come,  and  it  was  late  in  the  month. 
Four  o'clock  was  chiming  from  St. 
Cuthbert's  belfry  tower. 

A  girlish  figure  crossing  the  square  turned 
into  Minster  Street  and  approached  the  church 
with  light,  hasty  step.  It  was  Eunice  Heren- 
dean.  She  was  dressed  in  black,  although 
plainly  not  in  mourning,  and  wore  a  veil  of 
black  tissue,  through  which  her  eyes  shone  out 
even  darker  and  more  lustrous  than  their  wont, 
while  her  face  was  startlingly  pale. 

Notwithstanding  a  perceptible  accession  of 
confidence  and  self-possession  in  her  general 
bearing,  there  was  an  evident  nervous  trepida- 
tion upon  Eunice  now.  When  she  reached 
the  church  steps  she  tripped  in  her  haste,  and 
the  hand  with  which  she  pushed  open  the 
heavy  oak  door  trembled  visibly.  Passing 
through  the  cold,  empty  vestibule,  Eunice  en- 
tered the  church,  which  was  also  empty,  save 
for  two  or  three  persons  kneeling  alone  and 
silent  in  separate  pews. 

The  afternoon  sun  passing  through  the  richly 
158 


stained  windows  lighted  the  lofty  church  but 
dimly.  Above  the  high  altar,  in  a  pendent 
bronze  lamp,  burned  a  single  blood-red  light, 
indicating  the  reservation  of  the  sacrament ; 
and  as  she  saw  this  light  Eunice  sank  for  a 
moment  upon  her  knees,  and  bent  her  head 
in  an  attitude  of  prayer.  She  had  advanced 
rapidly  in  the  new  way  in  the  months  since  she 
first  went  with  Miss  Barringer  to  the  little 
church  in  Torridge.  She  did  not,  however, 
make  the  sign  of  the  cross  as  a  more  perfect 
pupil  of  the  ritualistic  school  would  have  done. 
Doubtless  that  would  come  in  time,  but  the 
girl's  Quaker  breeding  had  not  lost  all  its 
power  over  her  yet. 

Along  the  walls  of  the  church,  between  the 
painted  stations  of  the  cross,  were  carved  and 
curtained  confessionals,  consisting  each  of  two 
alcoves  connected  only  by  a  grated  window  in 
the  partition  wall  In  the  dusky  dimness  which 
filled  the  place,  one  light  burned  brightly  above 
the  entrance  to  one  of  these.  As  she  rose 
from  her  knees  in  the  heavy  hush  and  silence, 
and  moved  slowly  down  the  aisle  in  the  direc- 
tion of  this  light,  a  strange  faintness  came  over 
Eunice.  Entering  a  pew  she  knelt  and  buried 
her  face  in  her  hands.  Tears  trickled  through 
her  fingers.  She  rose  hastily,  pulled  her 
gloves  from  her  hands,  and  pushed  away  her 
'59 


a  "CQinO  fftower 

veil,  then  sat,  her  face  like  marble,  looking 
fixedly  before  her.  There  was  not  in  all  the 
great,  dim  place  a  sound  or  motion.  The 
women  who  had  been  kneeling  in  their  places 
when  she  entered  knelt  still,  motionless,  care- 
less of  who  might  come  or  go.  Were  they 
praying?  Eunice  wondered  a  little,  or  being 
sorry  for  their  sins?  or  only  aching  in  their 
hearts  and  glad  to  be  where  their  hearts  could 
ache  with  no  one  to  know  or  question  ? 

She  had  grown  quiet,  and  now  she  took 
from  her  pocket  a  small  leaflet,  and  kneeling 
again  she  began  to  murmur,  quite  to  herself, 
the  series  of  brief  supplications  which  it  con- 
tained, as,  "Kind  Lord  Jesus,  crowned  with 
thorns  for  my  sins,  make  me  sorry  for  them." 

Her  thoughts  gradually  took  order,  and  she 
was  able  to  consider  clearly  what  she  was  about 
to  do,  for  she  had  come  to  the  church  this 
Friday  afternoon  in  penitential  guise,  for  the 
declared  purpose  of  making  confession  and 
seeking  priestly  absolution. 

Without  doubt  she  would  confess  that  she 
had  sinned  exceedingly  in  being  vexed  many 
times  of  late  when  Mary  had  disapproved  of 
the  practices  of  the  church,  and  when  Friends 
had  made  unpleasant  comments  upon  it.  This 
had  been  a  grievous  sin,  and  for  it  she  was 
truly  penitent.  So  also  for  the  folly  and  vanity 
1 60 


B  TCUnO  fflowet 

of  an  undue  interest  in  her  dress  and  appear- 
ance ;  and  so  on  through  a  variety  of  amiable 
weaknesses.  All  this  was  comparatively  simple. 
As  for  the  self-absorption  and  self-seeking  of 
her  nature,  it  was  too  complete  and  all-enclos- 
ing to  be  perceived  by  herself,  and  so  escaped 
the  analysis. 

But  what  of  the  one  great  burden  which  lay 
upon  her  conscience?  Could  she  lay  that 
bare  ?  Could  she  lay  it  down  ?  This  was  the 
supreme  intent  with  which  she  had  come,  but 
could  she  in  very  deed  carry  out  that  intent  ? 
Could  she  even  wish  to  ?  and  if  she  did,  was 
it  certain  to  avail  her?  A  man's  face  seemed 
again  bent  above  her,  and  a  familiar  voice  to 
be  saying  in  her  ear,  "I  have  a  power  over 
you  which  you  cannot  resist,  and  which  will 
draw  you  back  to  me,  however  far  you  may 
seek  to  fly  beyond  my  reach. ' ' 

Eunice's  clasped  hands  hung  over  the  back 
of  the  seat  before  her ;  her  forehead  was 
pressed  hard  against  the  cold,  polished  wood. 
For  the  time,  in  the  intensity  of  her  thought, 
she  had  lost  the  sense  of  her  surroundings,  of 
her  bodily  presence  and  being.  Through  the 
silence,  from  some  unseen  space,  there  came  a 
sound  just  then  of  music,  a  child's  voice, 
sweet  and  pure,  chanting  the  Magnificat. 
Eunice  knew  the  voice.  It  was  that  of  the 
L  161 


fflower 


forlorn  little  prodigy  from  the  iron  mines, 
whom  Father  Norman  had  discovered  in  his 
ministrations  among  the  poor.  They  were 
training  him  now  for  the  choir. 

As  she  listened  Eunice  trembled,  for  a  sense 
of  something  incredible  and  against  the  nature 
of  things  in  her  purposed  action  smote  upon 
her  with  the  familiar  strains,  high  and  noble  in 
their  suggestion.  To  lay  bare  her  heart,  and 
the  darkest  recesses  of  it,  before  another,  and 
that  other  Father  Norman,  in  his  austere,  spir- 
itual elevation  ;  to  seek  through  his  explicit 
forgiveness  that  of  the  Most  High  ;  to  place 
herself  before  him,  so  high  above  her,  in  a 
manner  so  intensely  personal  —  how  could  such 
a  thing  be  ? 

Could  she  forget  that  he  was  he,  and  she, 
herself,  Eunice  Herendean,  and  speak  to  him 
only  as  to  the  priest,  not  as  to  the  man  who 
had  walked  beside  her,  who  had  talked  with 
her  gently  and  looked  into  her  face  with  that 
delicate  kindness  which  belonged  to  all  his 
people,  and  yet  with  an  indescribable  some- 
thing superadded  which  had  thrilled  her  with  a 
mysterious  sense  of  possibilities?  And  yet, 
others  had  done  just  this  thing,  and  in  a  way 
she  longed  to  do  it  too.  There  was  a  certain 
picturesque  element  in  such  a  situation  which 

strongly  appealed  to  her.     But,    far   beyond 
162 


fflower 


that,  she  honestly  desired  peace  and  rest  for 
the  small  torments  of  her  soul  ;  she  craved  the 
moral  sedative  of  a  human  voice  pronouncing 
her  worst  not  too  bad  to  be  forgiven  —  the 
refuge  of  weak  natures  through  all  time  —  se- 
cretly, underlying  all,  she  was  willing  for  Father 
Norman  to  know  what  she  was  about  to  re- 
nounce. For  Eunice's  constancy  to  her  lover 
had  faltered  and  failed,  blighted  by  the  reck- 
lessness and  dishonor  which  had  lately  been 
laid  to  his  charge.  There  were  fitful,  fluctuat- 
ing moods  when  her  heart  still  yearned  passion- 
ately after  him,  but  she  felt,  none  the  less,  that 
his  day  for  her  was  over  ;  another  figure,  nobler 
than  his,  was  rising,  though  in  dim  outline  and 
remote,  on  her  horizon. 

But  now  the  thought  came  suddenly,  What 
if  Father  Norman  should  not  come  himself? 
Eunice  knew  that  his  assistant  often  heard 
confessions.  Very  likely  he  would  send  Mr. 
Parke  this  afternoon,  knowing  that  she  was  com- 
ing. He  often  seemed  to  avoid  her  of  late, 
she  thought,  and  even  in  the  confirmation 
class  to  speak  coldly  and  sternly  to  her. 

"Oh,  dear,"  she  sighed  to  herself,  in  her 
childish,  grieving  fashion,  "it  will  be  so  dread- 
ful if  he  does  not  come  himself  !  And  yet,  if 
he  does,  I  think  I  shall  die." 

There  was  a  step  on  the  floor  of  the  aisle. 
163 


fflower 


A  tall  figure  was  approaching  from  the  chancel 
in  the  long  black  cassock,  wearing  the  beretta. 
It  was  Father  Norman.  Through  the  door 
which  had  opened  behind  him  came  a  fresh 
burst  of  the  music,  again  the  sweet,  high  voice 
chanting  the  words  : 

"  He  hath  put  down  the  mighty  from  their  seats, 
And  exalted  them  of  low  degree." 

A  sudden  calmness  fell  upon  Eunice,  and 
her  inner  trembling  ceased.  She  knew  that 
Father  Norman  had  come  very  near  ;  she 
knew  that  he  had  entered  the  confessional 
close  at  hand  ;  one  of  the  kneeling  figures  had 
arisen  and  followed  him,  entering  the  adjoin- 
ing alcove  ;  the  others  had  left  the  church. 
She  was  alone.  That  Father  Norman  had 
seen  her  was  certain,  and  not  less  so  that  he 
held  her  name  as  having  desired  the  opportu- 
nity for  confession  at  this  hour.  To  retreat 
was  impossible.  To  hold  herself  steady  was 
all  that  was  left. 

One  of  the  clairvoyant  moments  which 
comes  in  hours  of  intense  excitement  to  per- 
sons of  acute  susceptibility  came  to  Eunice 
just  then.  She  knew  exactly  what  would  take 
place  in  the  next  half-hour,  and  she  knew  that 
in  the  purpose  to  which  she  would  commit  her- 
self the  very  issues  of  life  for  her  might  be  in- 
164 


jflower 


volved,  but  she  was  no  longer  afraid.  She 
still  knelt,  mechanically  repeating  the  little 
litany  in  the  book  by  her  side.  When,  pres- 
ently, the  door  was  opened,  and  some  one 
left  the  confessional  and  withdrew,  she  rose 
quietly,  entered,  and  shut  the  door. 


165 


XIX 

IT  was  five  o'clock  when  the  door  of 
the  confessional  opened  and  Eunice 
stepped  again  into  the  aisle.  She 
was  pale  as  before,  and  her  breath  came  quick 
and  fluttering.  Returning  to  the  seat  which 
she  had  left,  she  knelt,  according  to  the  pre- 
scribed form,  to  return  thanks  for  the  grace 
which  had  been  vouchsafed  her.  While  she 
was  thus  kneeling,  Father  Norman  came  from 
the  opposite  side  of  the  confessional,  and 
walked  down  the  long,  dusky  aisle,  disappear- 
ing into  the  unknown  regions  behind  the 
choir. 

Eunice  distinctly  heard  his  retreating  foot- 
steps, but  she  heard  nothing  more.  Even  as 
she  knelt,  the  spaces  around  her  grew  into  a 
whirling  blackness,  and  her  prayers  were  lost 
in  a  close  and  unavailing  struggle  to  retain  her 
consciousness.  The  struggle  ceased  abruptly 
and  she  sank  fainting  upon  the  floor  of  the 
pew,  unseen  and  unnoticed.  The  strain  to 
which  she  had  subjected  herself  had  proved 
over-great. 

Meanwhile,  the  hour  for  closing  the  church 
166 


B  TldinD  flower 

having  come  and  the  building  being  to  all 
appearance  empty,  the  great  doors  of  entrance 
were  securely  locked,  all  lights  save  the  red 
spark  over  the  altar  were  extinguished,  and 
the  church  was  closed  for  the  night. 

When  Eunice  recovered  consciousness  and 
a  sense  of  what  had  befallen  her,  her  first 
effort  was  to  rise,  and  after  a  few  moments  in 
which  she  rallied  her  spent  forces,  with  all  the 
strength  of  will  of  which  she  was  possessed, 
she  moved  with  slow  and  faltering  steps  to  the 
vestibule,  and  sought  access  to  the  street,  but 
in  vain.  Every  door  was  securely  fastened. 

Frightened  and  trembling,  she  made  her 
way  back  into  the  church  and  down  the  cen- 
tral aisle  to  the  chancel,  hoping  to  see  there 
some  lingering  attendant,  but  the  place  was 
empty  and  deserted,  and  the  dead  Christ  on 
the  marble  reredos  behind  the  altar  showed 
ghastly  and  awful  in  the  gloom,  for  the  brief 
winter  twilight  was  merging  into  dark. 

Something  like  terror  overmastered  Eunice, 
as  she  felt  her  way  along  the  cold,  polished 
pavement  of  the  aisle  to  the  right  of  the  choir. 
Beyond  were  chapels,  she  knew,  and  the  sac- 
risty. Her  only  chance  to  escape  a  night  of 
untold  dread  was  to  grope  her  way  to  some 
door  of  entrance  into  one  of  these  small  rooms, 
and  from  there  find  means  of  exit. 
167 


fflower 

More  by  feeling  than  by  sight  she  came  at 
last  to  a  door  and  clasped  the  knob  in  both 
her  hands.  It  turned,  but  the  door  was 
locked.  A  great  sob  rose  up  in  her  throat, 
and  although  she  did  not  know  it,  tears  fell 
hot  and  fast  down  her  cheeks.  Her  limbs 
shook  under  her,  and  the  former  faintness 
seemed  sweeping  toward  her  like  a  great 
surge  of  darkness,  overflowing  darkness.  She 
had  taken  a  few  steps  blindly  forward,  when 
her  hand  struck  against  another  door  knob. 
In  despair,  rather  than  in  hope,  she  turned  it, 
pushing  with  the  last  remnant  of  her  strength 
against  the  panels.  The  door  opened  at  once 
into  a  small,  high,  and  brightly  lighted  room. 
This  room,  strictly  ecclesiastical  in  all  its  ap- 
pointments, was  furnished  with  shelves  of 
books  and  with  a  great  polished  table,  before 
which  stood  a  chair  of  carved  oak  with  a  tall 
Gothic  frame. 

In  this  chair  Father  Norman  was  seated, 
writing.  A  young  choir  boy  was  engaged 
behind  him  in  arranging  piles  of  pamphlets 
on  some  shelves. 

With  a  low  cry  of  joy  and  release,  Eunice 
held  out  her  hands;  her  face  was  ghastly  white, 
and  her  eyes  were  fixed  upon  Father  Nor- 
man's face  with  the  piteous  imploring  of  a 

frightened  child. 

168 


S  TSUinD  jflower 

Dazzled  by  the  light  and  the  sharp  surprise, 
and  scarcely  conscious  of  what  occurred,  Eu- 
nice could  never  recall  how  it  came  to  pass 
that  an  instant  later  she  found  herself  seated 
in  Father  Norman's  Gothic  chair,  her  head 
resting  against  its  carved  panels,  and  her  hands, 
which  were  icy  cold,  held  firmly  in  a  warm, 
invigorating  clasp.  The  small  boy  presently 
ran  up  and  held  out  in  a  rough,  red  little 
hand,  a  glass  of  water  which  dropped  plen- 
teously  down  the  folds  of  her  dress  as  he  lifted 
it  to  her  lips. 

Eunice  drank  a  little,  and  the  color  came 
back  to  her  face. 

"  I  was  faint  in  the  church,"  she  said,  look- 
ing up  into  Father  Norman's  face,  which  was 
bent  above  her,  full  of  serious  concern.  ' '  I 
do  not  know  how  long  it  lasted,  but  when  I 
could  move  they  had  locked  the  doors.  O 
Father  Norman,  I  was  so  frightened,"  and 
she  cried  a  little  with  the  thought  of  it. 

"  I  should  have  taken  better  care  of  you," 
he  said  ;  "I  ought  to  have  foreseen  that  what 
would  be  simple  to  others  would  be  to  you  an 

intense  ordeal.  A  nature  like  yours  " 

and  he  broke  off  abruptly.  "You  had  been 
fasting  too,  I  have  no  doubt  ? ' '  and  he  looked 
down  with  'a.  kind  of  severe  gentleness  into 

her  face. 

169 


a  IdinO  Slower 

"Yes,  all  day,"  she  answered  simply. 

"You  must  not  do  it,  my  child."  Father 
Norman  spoke  with  the  authority  which  seemed 
instinctive  rather  than  acquired  in  him.  "It 
is  not  for  such  as  you,"  and  he  smiled  as  he 
released  her  hands,  and  apparently,  uncon- 
sciously to  himself,  brushed  back  with  a  swift, 
gentle  motion  the  hair  which  had  fallen  down 
her  face,  retreating  at  once,  when  he  had  done 
so,  to  the  end  of  the  table. 

"  Be  a  good  child,  and  let  your  sins  go  for 
a  while.     You  are  not  so  very  bad,"  a  whim 
sical  amusement  added  to  his  usual  gravity. 

' '  Oh,  I  thought  I  was  more  wicked  than 
any  one  !  "  murmured  Eunice,  the  tears  start- 
ing again.  "  I  have  been  so  distressed." 

He  shook  his  head  gravely.  ' '  We  must 
think  about  this  some  day,  but  just  now  I  am 
going  to  send  you  home  as  soon  as  possible. 
Joey,"  and  Father  Norman  turned  to  the 
small  boy  who  had  been  kneeling  at  the  oppo- 
site side  of  the  table  with  his  chin  resting  on 
his  hands,  regarding  Eunice  with  round,  won- 
dering eyes,  "Joey,  my  boy,  you  are  to  stay 
here  and  watch  this  young  lady  while  I  go  out 
and  bring  back  a  cab  and  one  of  the  sisters 
to  take  her  out  to  Willow  Street,  for  you  and  I 
know  that  it  would  not  do  the  least  in  the 
world  to  send  her  alone. ' ' 
170 


fflower 


Joey,  who  was  Father  Norman's  new  pro- 
tege, sprang  to  his  feet  in  instant  alarm. 

"No,  Father  Norman,"  he  exclaimed, 
speaking  with  a  slight  but  unmistakable  Irish 
accent,  "I'll  run  for  the  hack  or  anythin'  ye 
please,  but  don't  ye  be  leavin'  me  here  alone 
in  the  church  with  the  young  lady.  Sure, 
she'd  be  like  to  take  sick  agin,  an'  if  she  was 
for  faintin',  honest,  Father  Norman,  I  wouldn't 
dare  stay  a  minute,  I'd  be  that  frightened." 

"I'll  promise  not  to  faint  again,  Joey," 
said  Eunice  ;  but  Joey  shook  his  head,  uncon- 
vinced. 

"Well,"  said  Father  Norman,  "here  is  a 
situation  equal  to  the  fable  of  the  fox  and  the 
goose  and  the  bag  of  corn  !  What  shall  I  do  ? 
The  proprieties  will  not  permit  me  to  let  Joey 
do  the  errand  ;  Joey's  fears  will  not  permit 
me  to  do  it  -  " 

At  this  point  Eunice  sprang  to  her  feet  with 
sudden  energy. 

"  Don't  get  up,"  said  Father  Norman  ;  "  I 
like  to  see  you  there,"  and  his  eyes  said  more 
than  his  words. 

"I  feel  as  if  I  was  on  your  throne,"  said 
Eunice,  coloring,  "and  I  don't  belong  there, 
you  know."  His  look  and  the  way  he  spoke 
to  her  had  the  stimulating  effect  upon  her  of 

wine.      '  '  I    am    going  home  now,   and  I  am 
171 


a  TKHtn&  flower 

going  to  walk  home.  I  don't  want  any  sisters 
nor  any  cabs  nor  any  one  to  go  home  with 
me,"  and  with  a  few  touches  to  her  hat  and 
dress,  she  stepped  toward  the  door,  which  she 
rightly  guessed  led  into  a  cross  street. 

"Very  well,"  said  Father  Norman.  "Pos- 
sibly the  walk  will  do  you  good.  Put  on  your 
coat,  Joey,"  and  he  disappeared  for  a  mo- 
ment into  another  room. 

Eunice  waited  perforce,  unable  to  open  the 
door,  and  in  another  moment  the  two  were  at 
her  side,  dressed  for  the  street.  Eunice  tried 
to  protest,  but  Father  Norman  simply  drew 
her  hand  through  his  arm  and  walked  on 
through  the  dark,  slippery  street  as  if  it  were 
altogether  a  matter  of  course. 

"But  what  will  people  say?"  she  mur- 
mured, as  they  entered  a  better-lighted  thor- 
oughfare, knowing  well  the  extreme  importance 
attached  to  every  movement  of  the  rector  of 
St.  Cuthbert's,  and  the  scrupulous  care  with 
which  he  habitually  held  himself  aloof  from 
women. 

"  That  I  am  an  excessively  fortunate  man," 
rejoined  Norman  quickly.  "Joey,  stick  close 
to  my  heels.  Follow  me  like  a  shadow,  my 
boy.  Miss  Eunice  feels  the  need  of  a  chap- 
eron. ' ' 

Eunice    laughed   in  spite  of  herself.      But 
172 


H  TOltno  fflower 

what  change  was  this  which  had  come  over 
Father  Norman  ?  She  hardly  knew  him  for 
himself  in  this  gay,  ironical,  masterful  mood. 

In  a  moment  Norman  stopped  before  a 
small,  brightly  lighted  shop,  a  dairy,  with 
gleaming,  white-tiled  walls.  Without  com- 
ment he  drew  Eunice  in  and  stood  before  the 
spotless  marble  counter.  Joey,  with  eyes 
wide  with  wonder,  guarded  the  door. 

"A  glass  of  milk,  if  you  please,"  Norman 
said  quickly  to  the  trim  damsel  who  presided 
over  the  place. 

Eunice  watched  the  proceedings  as  if  she 
were  without  power  of  action  or  volition.  In- 
deed, the  whole  scene  had  to  her  conscious- 
ness the  aspect  of  a  dream  :  this  small,  daz- 
zling white  place,  like  some  fabulous  cavern  ; 
she,  faint  and  dizzy,  standing  with  all  the  lights 
converging  on  her,  and  Father  Norman,  the 
remote,  august  priest,  with  whom  all  the  small 
concerns  of  life  had  hitherto  seemed  impossi- 
ble, holding  out  to  her  a  glass  of  milk,  and 
bidding  her  drink  it  with  that  kind,  almost 
caressing  voice,  and  the  new,  strange  smile  in 
his  eyes.  Surely,  all  things  were  changed. 

As  for  Norman,  the  change  in  him  was  far 

greater  than  the  girl  dreamed  or  could  have 

compassed    in    her    imagination.      Something 

which  he  had  been  building  up  for  years  with 

173 


UlinC>  flower 


prayer  and  discipline  and  aspiration,  had  in 
that  little  hour  in  the  room  they  had  left  but 
now,  crumbled  to  ashes,  falling  before  the 
flame  of  a  passion  smothered  for  months  by 
all  the  strength  of  his  will,  but  bursting  out  at 
last,  if  not  beyond  his  power,  at  least  beyond 
his  wish  to  control.  And  in  that  hour,  at 
least,  he  saw  the  ruins  of  his  ideal  without 
regret,  rather  with  exultation.  A  sense  of 
freedom  and  release  had  taken  possession  of 
him.  He  was,  after  all,  a  man  like  other  men, 
with  the  right  of  other  men  to  seek  the  joy 
and  crown  of  life  !  No  vows  or  bonds  held 
him  back.  That  youthful  ideal  had  had  its 
day  and  its  uses,  but  its  day  was  over.  "The 
King  is  dead.  Long  live  the  King  !  " 

Such  were  the  hidden  motions  of  Norman's 
spirit  as  he  stood  and  watched  Eunice  while 
she  obediently  drank  the  milk,  looking  up  to 
him  now  and  then  with  eyes  full  of  childlike 
wonder. 

As  they  passed  on  down  the  Coalport  street, 
through  the  alternating  glare  and  gloom  of  the 
electric  lights,  past  common,  sordid  trading 
places,  graceless  and  forlorn,  Francis  Norman 
seemed  to  himself  to  be  walking  on  air,  to  be 
"wrapt  in  blaze  ...  by  a  minute's  birth — 
through  the  love  in  a  girl  !" — a  little  meek, 
white  thing  whom  he  could  make  faint  bv  a 
174 


B  Mind  Slower 

word  or  look  of  severity  and  yet  imperious  and 
formidable  in  the  invisible  power  which  she 
held  over  him. 

The  day  of  his  destiny  had  come  and  he 
hurried  to  meet  it,  no  hand  holding  him  back. 

That  night  Eunice  Herendean,  in  her  still 
chamber  at  home,  wrote  to  Ralph,  her  cousin, 
that  she  had  come  to  look  upon  their  past 
relation  as  deceitfulness  and  sin  ;  that  she  was 
about  to  take  upon  herself  solemn  vows  of 
dedication,  and  she  wished  to  renounce  every 
evil  way  and  enter  upon  her  new  life  with  a 
clear  conscience  and  an  honest  heart.  She 
therefore  begged  him  to  release  her,  as  she 
did  him,  from  every  promise  and  pledge  which 
held  them,  and,  always  praying  for  his  good 
and  for  his  return  to  a  better  life,  she  must  con- 
sider herself  from  this  time  forth  as  no  more 
than  his  good  friend  and  cousin. 

To  this  decorous  and  succinct  epistle  Eunice 
shortly  received  the  following  reply  : 

MY  PRECIOUS  SIMPLETON  : 

The  religious  business  is  very  nice  and  becoming, 
but  transparent.  I  can't  release  you  on  that  score. 
If  you  care  for  another  man,  why  that  is  a  different 
story.  I  shall  never  let  you  go  until  you  tell  me  with 
your  own  lips  that  you  love  another  man  better  than 
you  love  me.  I  can' t  come  to  Coalport  just  now  for 
obvious  reasons,  but  I  shall  have  my  difficulties  smoothed 
out  before  long,  and  in  May  I  shall  see  you,  wh»*.her 
175 


fflower 


you  will  or  no,  and  let  you  tell  me  the  truth.  These 
pious  platitudes,  Eunice,  may  deceive  the  elect,  but 
the  non-elect  can  see  through  them. 

Yours,         RALPH. 

It  was  but  a  fortnight  later  that  "society," 
which  is  not  always  indifferent  to  the  records 
of  its  own  doings,  was  busied  with  the  follow- 
ing paragraph  in  a  Coalport  journal  : 

It  is  perhaps  months  or  even  years  since  our  inner 
circle  of  society  has  been  stirred  with  a  sensation  equal 
to  that  awakened  by  the  engagement  of  the  Rev. 
Francis  Norman,  rector  of  St.  Cuthbert's  Church,  to 
Miss  Eunice,  second  daughter  of  our  venerable  Quaker 
citizen,  Moses  Herendean.  It  is  very  well  known  that 
Father  Norman  has  been  the  center  of  an  ardently 
admiring  circle  of  fashionable  and  charming  women  ; 
but  it  has  been  further  reported  at  least  that  he  was 
not  only  averse  to  marriage,  but  would  probably  sooner 
or  later  embrace  the  vows  of  one  of  the  Episcopal  celi- 
bate orders.  The  young  lady  who  has  been  able  to 
rival  Coalport's  society  belles  and  to  conquer  the  dis- 
tinguished rector's  ascetic  tendencies  is  described  as 
possessed  of  beauty  and  charm  in  a  high  degree.  She 
has  hitherto  lived  a  life  of  strictest  retirement  in  the  old 
family  mansion  in  Willow  Street,  but  she  will  undoubt- 
edly, as  the  fiancee  of  the  rector  of  St.  Cuthbert's,  find 
the  arms  of  our  best  society  opened  wide  to  receive 
her. 

This  paragraph  received  its  share  of  ani- 
mated discussion  at  the  Barringers'   breakfast 
table.      Miss  Barringer  alone  was  silent,  join- 
176 


a  TClfno  fflower 


ing  neither  in  sarcasm  nor  incredulous  amaze- 
ment. Her  sole  comment  as  she  rose  from 
the  table  was, 

"  Isn't  Rebecca  a  Quaker  name  ?  It  seems 
to  me  it  would  have  suited  our  young  friend 
better  than  Eunice. ' ' 


'77 


XX 

|N  May,  in  the  early  evening,  Francis 
Norman  was  walking  up  and  down 
his  narrow  room. 

His  aspect  was  not  that  of  a  happy  and 
complacent  lover  or  of  a  satisfied  man.  A 
noticeable  change  had  taken  place  in  him,  for 
his  characteristic  melancholy  had  deepened  to 
profound  gloom,  his  face  was  gaunt  and  hollow- 
eyed,  and  the  hands,  clasped  hard  behind  him 
as  he  walked,  showed  a  thinness  approaching 
emaciation. 

There  was  upon  him,  at  this  hour,  in  his 
solitude,  the  impress  of  a  mental  struggle  des- 
perate in  its  reality.  There  was.no  resort  to 
postures,  or  pictures,  or  even  to  prayer.  The 
principalities  and  powers  against  which  he 
wrestled  seemed  to  be  beyond  the  reach  of 
weapons  like  these  ;  this,  or  the  man  had 
thrown  down  his  arms  in  act  to  surrender. 

Upon  the  desk  which  he  passed  and  re- 
passed  in  his  steady  pacing  to  and  fro  stood 
the  porcelain  of  Murillo's  Saint  Anthony  re- 
ceiving the  Infant  Christ.  As  he  walked,  a 
nervous  haste  seemed  to  grow  upon  Norman. 
If* 


B  TldinD  fflower 


and  with  a  sudden  gesture  he  threw  both  arms 
wide  as  one  who  would  put  away  from  him 
with  power  the  advance  of  something  supremely 
dreaded. 

There  was  a  shivering  crash  on  the  bare 
floor,  and  Norman  turned  on  his  heel  to  see 
that  in  his  hasty  movement  he  had  struck  and 
thrown  from  the  desk  the  picture  of  the  saint. 
His  first  impulse  was  to  stoop  with  quick  con- 
cern to  gather  the  broken  pieces,  but  he  drew 
back,  lifting  his  head  with  a  wan  smile  of  in- 
expressible sadness. 

"To  what  use?"  he  murmured  to  himself. 
' ' '  The  gone  thing  was  to  go. '  Let  it  go.  All 
that  it  stood  for  has  gone  already." 

He  turned  again  and  touched  the  broken 
porcelain  with  his  foot,  with  bitter  musing  in 
his  eyes. 

"There  it  lies — as  my  life  thus  far — a  pic- 
ture, an  image,  a  vision,  a  dream,  not  a  reality  ! 
And  even  that — broken.  So  be  it.  God  ! 
what  is  next?  " 

Rallying  himself  with  a  strong  effort,  Nor- 
man left  the  room.  Half  an  hour  later  he 
was  on  his  way  to  Willow  Street  to  call  upon 
Eunice  and  accompany  her  to  a  reception  at 
Mrs.  Knight's  on  the  avenue.  It  was  a  quiet 
evening,  full  of  scents  and  suggestions  of  the 
season's  loveliness,  and  the  street  at  the  side 
179 


B  Trains  Slower 

of  the  Herendean  estate  was  almost  like  a 
country  lane,  and  under  the  budding  trees 
and  with  the  sweet,  indefinable  softness  of  the 
spring  it  looked  a  pretty  place  for  lovers  to 
walk.  Norman  saw  a  man  sauntering  idly 
under  the  trees  in  the  shadow  of  the  wall  and 
thought  it  would  be  good  to  be  free  like  that, 
waiting  perhaps  for  your  sweetheart  to  join 
you  and  go  out  under  the  stars  in  the  stillness, 
instead  of  to  the  lights  and  music  and  the 
whirl  of  men  and  women.  But,  Eunice,  he 
knew,  was  full  of  eager  and  delighted  anticipa- 
tion of  the  brilliant  occasion  awaiting  them, 
where,  she  rightly  guessed,  she  would  herself 
be  the  object  of  most  vivid  interest. 

The  hour  was  early,  but  Norman  found  the 
somber  old  library  irradiated  by  a  vision  in 
glistening  silk  and  gauze,  standing  under  the 
gaslight  and  seeming  to  flood  the  room  with 
her  lustre. 

Eunice  greeted  her  lover  with  a  smile  of 
childish  coquetry,  and  held  out  her  hand  to 
him  in  a  playfully  imperious  gesture.  Her 
eyes  were  dancing  with  excitement,  and  a 
bright  color  in  her  cheeks  made  her  beauty 
fairly  dazzling.  Norman  stood  and  watched 
her  in  silence.  Mary,  in  quiet  home  dress, 
was  adjusting  some  ribbons  at  her  waist. 

"Oh,  do  hurry,  Mary  dear!"  Eunice  ex- 
180' 


a  *uatnD  fflower 

claimed,  moving  restlessly;  "I  feel  as  if  I 
could  not  stand  another  minute." 

"Why,  dear,  thee  is  not  tired  already?" 
said  Mary,  with  quick  solicitude,  for  Eunice's 
delicate  health  was  always  her  anxiety. 

"No,  no,"  was  the  impatient  reply,  "but 
I  want  to  be  all  by  myself  and  keep  still  a 
little  while  before  I  go.  I  did  not  expect  you, 
sir,  for  a  long  time  yet.  The  carriage  will  not 
be  here  for  half  an  hour,  and  I  am  not  ready 
to  see  anybody.  My  poor  little  heart  beats 
itself  almost  to  pieces  when  I  think  of  all  those 
people  who  will  stare  at  me  to-night.  I  am 
going  into  the  morning  room.  Please  don't 
come  after  me — any  one.  Good-bye  ! ' '  and 
with  a  flashing  smile  at  Norman  as  she  passed, 
Eunice  ran  from  the  room,  closing  the  door 
after  her.  Father  Norman  and  Mary  faced 
each  other  alone. 

Two  months  before,  Mary,  coming  in  from 
the  street,  had  found  Father  Norman,  much 
to  her  surprise,  sitting  alone  in  their  library. 
He  was  waiting  to  see  Moses  Herendean,  who 
was  expected  in  a  few  moments.  It  was  the 
first  time  that  Mary  had  seen  Norman  since 
their  stormy  passage  in  the  parlor  at  the  parish 
house.  What  had  brought  him  here  now  she 
dimly,  intuitively  guessed — the  key  had  been 
in  her  hand  ever  since  a  certain  misty  morning 
181 


jflower 

in  Whippany.  Certainly  she  did  not  pause  to 
conjecture  or  question,  but  with  firm,  unhesi- 
tating step,  walked  straightway  up  to  Father 
Norman,  who  rose  quickly  from  his  place,  and 
holding  out  her  still  gloved  hand  said,  quite 
without  self-consciousness  : 

"I  have  wanted  to  see  you,  and  I  am  glad 
you  are  here.  I  have  your  pardon  to  ask  for 
my  anger  that  day  when  I  was  with  Eunice. 
Whatever  I  felt  I  should  have  kept  to  myself. 
I  have  seen  it  since,  and  I  am  very  sorry, ' ' 
and  she  looked  humbly  but  without  faltering 
into  his  eyes. 

"I  have  more  need  than  you  for  peni- 
tence," Norman  said  gently,  smiling.  "It 
was  not  easy  for  either  of  us,  and  I  hated  my- 
self afterward  for  what  must  have  seemed 
unpardonable  harshness.  Then  can  we  agree, 
Mary  Herendean,  to  be  friends?"  and  Mary 
gave  him  her  hand  once  more  in  token  of 
peace  and  understanding. 

In  the  weeks  following,  in  which  it  came  to 
pass  that  Father  Norman  appeared  very  often 
in  the  Herendean  home,  and  soon  in  the 
character  of  Eunice's  suitor,  he  and  Mary  had 
met  always  in  friendly  fashion  and  found  many 
common  interests ;  but  until  to-night,  whether 
by  accident  or  by  Mary's  intention,  they  had 
never  been  left  alone  together. 
182 


B  TJCUnS  Slower 

Norman  threw  himself  now  into  a  leather 
study  chair  and  exclaimed  with  a  long  breath  : 

"The  child  is  very  lovely  ! " 

Mary  had  betaken  herself  to  a  basket  of 
sewing  under  the  lamplight,  seeing  no  way  to 
escape,  as  she  gladly  would  have  done,  a 
somewhat  prolonged  interview.  She  noted  the 
tone  in  which  he  spoke  to  her.  It  was  as  he 
would  have  spoken  to  Eunice's  mother,  had 
she  been  alive. 

"Very  lovely,  but  not  a  child  any  more, 
Francis  Norman,"  was  her  quiet  response. 

After  a  moment's  pause  she  continued  : 
' '  Eunice  used  to  seem  to  me  like  a  little  wild 
wood-anemone, — the  windflower,  you  know, 
— shy  and  white,  with  old,  dry  leaves  rustling 
stiffly  about  her  feet  from  the  time  gone  by," 
and  Mary  smiled  at  her  own  fancy.  ' '  I  have 
seen  the  flower  often  in  the  woods,  growing 
almost  at  the  edge  of  a  snow  drift,  with  its 
few,  single  petals  as  cold  and  white  as  the 
snow." 

"Yes,  I  see  it  all  so  far,"  replied  Norman, 
his  head  sunk  in  his  hands,  studying  the  par- 
allelograms of  the  old-fashioned  carpet  me- 
chanically ;  "  go  on,  please.  Let  me  know  the 
havoc  I  have  wrought."  he  added  grimly. 
' '  I  believe  the  botanists  say  that  the  flower 
you  speak  of  suffers  from  having  the  earth 
183 


a  THHtnO  fflower 

loosened  around  it,  and  that  it  should  be  left 
as  far  as  possible  untouched.  I  suppose  the 
likeness  holds." 

Mary  ignored  the  last  remark. 

"Now  she  seems  to  me  like  a  rose,  rich 
and  brilliant,  full  of  color  and  perfume,  and 
with  many  folds  upon  folds  of  desire  and  feel- 
ing, complex,  mysterious — not  the  child  any 
more. ' ' 

' '  Well, ' '  he  said,  waiting  to  see  if  she  had 
more  to  say,  "men  welcome  the  windflower, 
but  they  worship  the  rose." 

"  Only  the  change  has  come  so  suddenly 
and  it  is  so  unexpected.  I  did  not  know," 
she  concluded  with  a  little  laugh,  ' '  that  one 
could  turn  a  windflower  into  a  rose  even  by  the 
development  process." 

"Oh,  yes,"  he  said  wearily,  throwing  his 
head  back  against  the  chair,  "you  can.  Par- 
ticularly if  the  windflower  happens  to  be  a 
rosebud. ' ' 

Mary  looked  up.  His  tone  and  manner 
were  unlike  himself.  She  was  startled  at  the 
haggard  wretchedness  of  his  face,  which  she 
had  not  noticed  until  then. 

"You  are  not  well,"  she  exclaimed  with 
sincere  concern  ;  ' '  please  tell  me  if  I  can  do 
anything  for  you,"  and  she  looked  steadily 

into  his  face. 

184 


Slower 


For  answer  he  only  said  inconsequently  : 

"  How  firm  and  steady  your  hands  are.  I 
like  to  see  you  sew.  I  fancy  they  are  cool 
too,  and  I  know  your  pulse  is  strong  and  even. 
Touch  my  wrist  a  moment.  '  ' 

Mary  laid  her  hand,  with  a  nurse's  instinct, 
on  his  pulse.  It  was  galloping  after  a  reckless 
fashion  and  his  hand  was  hot  and  tremulous. 
She  laid  it  back  quietly  upon  the  leather  arm 
of  the  chair. 

"Will  you  tell  me  what  it  is?"  she  asked 
directly.  "  Something  is  quite  wrong  with  you 
to-night." 

Francis  Norman  looked  at  her  with  a  solemn 
question  in  his  eyes. 

'  '  Could  anything  shake  your  faith  in  God  ?  '  ' 
he  asked. 

Mary  knew  that  such  a  question  from  such  a 
man  must  be  asked  with  grave  purpose.  She 
paused  a  little  space,  her  face  grown  as  thought- 
ful as  his  own.  Then  lifting  her  eyes  and 
shedding  the  luminous  radiance  which  dwelt 
in  them  upon  the  face  of  Norman,  so  harried 
and  worn  with  conflict,  she  said  simply  : 

'  '  I  believe  —  nothing  could  ;  by  his  grace.  '  ' 


XXI 

JJATHER  NORMAN  looked  at  Mary, 
gravely  musing,  holding  his  hands 
before  him,  the  finger  tips  pressed 
hard  together. 

"That  is  as  I  thought,"  he  said;  "then  I 
have  almost  a  mind  to  answer  your  question. 
It  would  be  an  ease  to  me  to  speak ;  I  have 
been  weak  enough  to  long  for  that  kind  of 
relief,  as  a  sedative,  perhaps ;  but  the  trouble 
was  to  meet  any  one  whose  faith  was  proof 
against  contagion,  and  also  one  who  per- 
sonally would  not  suffer  by  learning  this  ex- 
perience of  mine.  You  can  see  how  impossible 
it  is  for  me  to  speak  of  this  to  Eunice." 

Mary  bent  her  head  slightly  in  acquiescence, 
but  the  hand  which  held  her  work  tightened 
hard  its  grasp  and  she  did  not  raise  her  eyes. 

"You  gave  me  a  little  parable  just  now," 
he  said,  smiling  faintly,  "  of  a  flower.  Let 
me  give  you  one.  Imagine  a  man  who  has 
been  most  solemnly  pledged  to  guard  and  also 
to  beautify  and  adorn  a  magical  veil  or  curtain, 
which  hung,  he  was  told,  before  a  sublime 
mystery,  the  highest  conceivable.  The  man 
186 


fflower 


accepts  the  mystery — the  Awful  Presence  thus 
veiled — implicitly,  and  sets  about  adorning 
this  mystic  veil  with  every  beautiful  thing 
which  could  find  place  in  its  texture.  He 
weaves  into  it,  we  will  say,  the  beauty  of  art 
and  music,  of  color  and  fragrance,  of  flowers 
and  fair  children,  of  saints  and  angels,  and  the 
sacrifice  of  a  whole  soul's  devotion — poor 
enough  that,  surely,"  Norman  added,  with 
abrupt  self-scorn;  "but  even  so,  the  man's 
best,  and  given  as  counting  nothing  too  dear 
to  give — do  you  see  ?  "  he  asked  suddenly, 
looking  at  Mary  with  piercing  earnestness. 

"I  think  I  understand,"  she  said. 

"Very  well.  But  then  all  this  is  not  so 
simple  as  it  seems,  for,  do  you  know?"  and 
Norman's  face  darkened  and  his  voice  sank  to 
an  impassioned  undertone,  "every  now  and 
then  as  the  man  I  describe  worked  on  and 
guarded  the  veil,  a  horrible  breath  would  come 
to  him,  whispering  that  behind  it  was — nothing 
— emptiness,  no  holy  thing,  no  glorious  mys- 
tery, no  life-giving,  boundless  power  and  love 
— but  bare  space,  as  in  the  Holiest  when  the 
Roman  soldiers  penetrated  to  its  recesses. 
When  this  whisper  came  the  man  only  labored 
more  unceasingly  to  perfect  the  beauty  of  the 
veil.  Poor  fool,  to  dream  that  the  outer  rich- 
ness could  fill  the  inner  emptiness  !  " 
187 


fflowet 


There  was  a  brief  silence  between  them  and 
then  Norman  went  on  with  less  passion  than 
before  : 

"One  day  something  happened  to  this  man, 
whose  life  was  being  almost  drained  by  the 
struggle  against  this  whisper,  for  do  you  know 
it  is  easier  to  fight  almost  anything  than  a 
whisper  ?  This  thing  which  happened  was  that 
the  poor  fellow  said  :  '  I  will  not  give  all  my 
heart's  best  to  the  veil  ;  something  I  will  keep, 
as  other  men  do,  for  myself;  I  will  have  my 
own  life  and  love  and  joy  under  the  sun.'  So 
he  grasped  the  most  beautiful  thing  which  he 
had  ever  known  —  grasped  it,  not  to  make  the 
veil  beautiful,  but  for  himself.  It  has  an  ugly 
sound,  but  it  is  the  bare  truth.  Can  you 
fancy  what  followed  or  what  seemed  to  this 
man  to  follow  ?  '  ' 

"  The  veil  grew  dim  ?  '  ' 

"Not  that  alone  ;  it  shriveled,  it  shrank,  it 
crumbled  and  fell  to  the  earth  before  him,  and 
behind  was  —  nothing.  Only  mocking  voices 
seemed  to  cry  in  laughter  what  he  had  only 
heard  in  sad  whispers  before." 

There  was  again  a  little  silence.  The  faces 
of  both  were  white  and  awed.  Then  Norman 
said  hoarsely  : 

"  If  you  want  to  know  what  agony  is,  under- 

stand that  this  parable  has  been  made  true  in 
188 


fflower 


my  life  and  pity  me  if  you  like.  '  '  He  buried 
his  face  in  his  hands  and  his  whole  frame 
shook  with  a  fierce  trembling. 

"You  have  prayed,  Francis  Norman?" 
Mary  asked. 

"There  is  nothing  which  I  have  not  done. 
With  prayer  and  penance,  with  fasting  and 
mortification,  nay  with  strong  crying  and  with 
tears,  I  have  sought  continually,  night  and  day, 
to  be  delivered  from  this  death.  I  have  read 
a  library  of  evidences,  but  they  touch  me  no- 
where. Mary  Herendean,  I  declare  to  you 
that,  enormous  as  it  is,  it  is  true  that  I  have 
lost  the  sense  of  God.  If  he  is,  I  know  it 
not  ;  he  is  not  for  me." 

Tears  dropped  slowly  from  Mary's  eyes. 

4  '  If  you  mean,  '  '  she  said,  '  '  that  you  grasped 
this  love  with  selfish  desire,  as  something  apart 
from  your  religion,  is  not  that  the  very  reason 
that  it  destroyed  your  faith  ?  '  ' 

"It  is  not  quite  that,"  he  replied;  "you 
miss  a  link.  It  destroyed  my  ideal.  This 
veil  means  my  conception  of  the  fabric  of 
the  Catholic  Church,  with  its  priesthood,  its 
vows,  its  sacraments,  the  power  of  the  keys, 
the  dedicated  life,  the  splendor  and  glory  of 
its  liturgy  ;  all  this  was  to  me  the  sacred  veil 
hanging  before  the  inscrutable  mystery.  But 
I  grant  it  is  not  easy  to  explain  it.  The  pro- 
189 


UCUno  flower 


cesses  of  spiritual  death  are  strange  and  obscure 
to  me.  Only  so  much  is  sure,  that  since  the 
hour  I  confessed  my  love,  and  gave  over  the 
struggle  to  conquer  it,  the  whole  conception  of 
my  life  as  a  priest  of  God  seems  to  lie  like  a 
thing  broken  at  my  feet,  like  the  picture  of 
Saint  Anthony  I  broke  to-night  before  I  left 
the  house. ' ' 

"Suppose,"  said  Mary,  smiling  a  little,  "I 
should  tell  you  that  it  almost  seems,  if  your 
love  is  true  and  righteous,  that  your  mystic 
veil  was  not  a  divine  thing ;  else  could  it  have 
been  destroyed  by  an  honest  love  ?  ' ' 

' '  Ah, ' '  he  said  quickly,  ' '  of  course  you 
would  say  that.  You  are  a  Friend." 

"  No,"  she  rejoined,  "I  am  not  altogether 
or  of  my  own  impulse  a  Friend.  For  my 
father's  sake  I  preserve  the  old  ties,  and  my 
sympathies  are  in  many  ways  with  Friends.  I 
should  not,  however,  to-day  voluntarily  unite 
with  them." 

' '  Truly  ?     And  why  not  ?  " 

"Because,  while  I  sincerely  think  their 
attempt  the  very  bravest  and  loftiest  one  that 
man  ever  made  to  get  straight  to  God  without 
intermediary  of  any  sort, — your  veil  and  its 
broideries  they  would  none  of,  and  I  think 
their  conception  the  higher, — still,  there  seems 
to  me  one  great  flaw  in  their  attempt." 
190 


B  TJdtnO  fflower 


"What  then?  You  amaze  me.  I  sup- 
posed you  a  thorough-going  Friend." 

"  They  reckoned  not  at  all  with  flesh  and 
blood.  Their  system  is  all  right  on  the  upper 
side,  but  it  has  little  or  nothing  to  say  to  the 
lower,  the  human  side.  They  would  have 
nothing  intervene  between  the  soul  and  God. 
Christ  was  more  merciful.  He  knew  what  was 
in  man  better  than  George  Fox  did.  But  you 
said  to  me  just  now  that  you  do  not  know 
God.  Forgive  me,  but  have  you  ever  known 
him?  Were  you  ever  sure  of  him  ?"  Mary's 
voice  was  very  gentle. 

Norman  groaned,  as  with  overmastering  pain. 

1 '  In  the  beginning  I  suppose  so.  I  took 
everything  for  granted.  I  was  thinking  more 
of  the  veil  though,  I  believe,  than  of  what  lay 
behind.  It  was  the  beauty  and  poetry  of  it 
which  had  sway  over  me. ' ' 

"It  seems  to  me,"  said  Mary,  "that  your 
veil  almost  fell  by  its  own  weight,  being  fash- 
ioned of  earthly  and  outward  elements.  Where 
our  people  think  little  of  the  visible  church, — 
too  little,  laying  all  stress  on  the  Inner  Light, 
the  Indwelling  God, — may  it  not  be  that  your 
mistake  has  been  in  exalting  overmuch  the 
church  and  its  rites  and  letting  go  the  firm 
hold  of  the  spirit  on  the  Invisible  God  ? 
Even  so,  a  mistake  like  that  can  be  retrieved, 
191 


a  "CCltnO  fflowcr 

"  For  wheresoe'er  I  stray  and  range, 
Whate'er  I  do,  thou  dost  not  change." 

"While  I  listen  to  you,"  answered  Norman, 
"everything  seems  possible,  and  yet  the  old 
doubt  lies  at  the  door.  Do  you  see  the  awful 
position  in  which  I  stand  ?  To  go  on,  if  faith 
is  gone,  would  be  impossible,  incredible ;  but  to 
confess  unfaith  would  be  like  the  betrayal  of  a 
trust.  Can  you  think  what  must  be  the  fight 
I  have  fought  through  these  weeks  ?  But  I 
could  not,  I  cannot  now,  believe  that  this  is 
the  end,  that  faith  is  dead.  Every  thinking 
man  must  pass  through  some  such  phase  of 
experience,  more  or  less  transient,"  and  Nor- 
man spoke  as  if  musing  and  to  himself. 
"  Every  day  I  dream  that  the  struggle  is  over 
and  peace  dawning,  but  each  night  it  all  comes 
back.  I  have  even  longed  to  fling  myself  to 
the  other  alternative,  which  waits  for  men  like 
me.  Do  you  remember  Manning's  dictum, 
'  It  is  Rome,  or  license  of  thought  and  will '  ? 
Either  the  Roman  system,  which  stops  at 
nothing,  which  welcomes  without  wincing  the 
whole  logic  of  supernaturalism,  and  which 
gives  these  aching  brains  the  pillow  of  an 
infallible  authority  on  which  to  rest — that  or 
complete  negation,  I  have  sometimes  felt,  were 
the  only  stopping-places  for  a  man  who  has 
192 


fflower 


traveled  the  way  I  have  come  and  at  last  opens 
his  eyes.  '  ' 

"  But  you  could  not  lay  such  bondage  upon 
your  spirit  as  to  accept  Romanism,  Francis 
Norman  ?  " 

He  smiled.  "Then  you  prefer  the  agnos- 
tic's position?  " 

"  I  prefer  honesty,"  Mary  Herendean  made 
answer,  looking  with  endless  sympathy  into  his 
face.  Then  falling  on  her  knees,  quite  simply 
and  as  if  it  were  the  only  thing  to  do,  she 
prayed  aloud  : 

"  O  Father  of  our  spirits,  who  knowest  the 
way  that  we  take  and  who  dost  love  thy  children 
with  love  everlasting,  make  thyself  known 
to  thy  servant.  Give  him  the  witness  of  thy 
Spirit  and  lead  him  in  a  plain  path." 

When  she  rose  two  hands  were  held  out  and 
hers  were  clasped  and  pressed  against  Francis 
Norman's  breast.  "You  are  my  sister,  my 
blessed  sister,"  he  said.  With  reverent  ten- 
derness he  touched  her  hand  with  his  lips  and 
then  turned  from  her  to  leave  the  room,  hardly 
knowing  whither  he  would  go. 


193 


XXII 

BHE  sound  of  wheels  outside  and  the 
opening  of  the  hall  door  brought 
back  both  to  Norman  and  to  Mary 
a  sense  of  the  present  and  its  demands.  Eu- 
nice came  in,  holding  up  a  ruffle  of  her  dress, 
and  remarking  excitedly  rather  than  gayly  : 

"You  two  are  getting  on  famously,  aren't 
you  ?  So  glad  !  I  have  been  trying  my  best 
to  train  Mary  to  look  upon  you  as  a  brother, 
Francis  Norman  ;  but  you  seem  to  have  suc- 
ceeded better  than  I,"  she  went  on  carelessly, 
apparently  failing  to  see  the  stress  and  strain 
which  the  conversation  had  left  visibly  stamped 
upon  their  faces. 

"  What  is  the  matter  with  thy  gown,  Eu- 
nice ? ' '  asked  Mary,  approaching  her. 

"  I  caught  the  ruffle  and  tore  it.  Can  you 
fasten  it,  Mary?  It  is  too  vexatious  !  "  Eu- 
nice was  fast  unlearning  the  use  of  the  Friends' 
forms  of  speech. 

Mary  brought  her  needle  and  thread  and 
knelt  down  at  Eunice's  feet.  Norman  had 
gone  into  the  hall. 

"  How  strange  !  "  said  Mary  in  a  low  voice 
194 


a  IdtnD  fflower 

to  her  sister  ;  "  here  is  a  thorn  caught  in  the 
ruffle  and  thy  dress  is  quite  damp,  Eunice. 
Where  has  thee  been,  dear?  I  can't  under- 
stand," and  a  troubled  perplexity,  dispropor- 
tionate, it  would  seem,  to  the  occasion,  showed 
itself  in  Mary's  face. 

"  I  stepped  out  on  the  veranda  a  minute," 
replied  Eunice  coldly.  "I  should  think  there 
was  no  great  difficulty  in  comprehending  that." 

Mary  made  no  reply.  She  knew  that  only 
in  the  rose  garden  down  by  the  gate  could  a 
thorn  like  that  have  been  found. 

Francis  Norman  came  in,  bringing  a  long 
white  cape  for  Eunice.  His  face  and  manner 
had  recovered  their  ordinary  calmness. 

"Isn't  my  new  cape  lovely?"  exclaimed 
Eunice  with  a  certain  forced  gayety. 

' '  Yes,  but  I  know  a  little  brown  shawl  that 
I  like  a  thousand  times  better.  Wear  that, 
dear,  when  you  want  to  please  me." 

Mary  had  risen  now,  the  mischief  to  the 
gown  having  been  repaired,  and  watched  the 
two  as  they  passed  out  to  the  hall  door,  turn- 
ing to  say  good -night  to  her  as  they  went. 

Father  Norman  stepped  back  from  the 
threshold  and  said  softly  : 

"A  man  cannot  despair  while  he  has  the 
love  of  such  a  girl,  Mary.  Did  you  ever  see 
her  so  beautiful  ?  "  and  he  hastened  after  Eu- 
195 


21  MinO  flower 

nice,  watching  her  steps  with  a  lover's  wor- 
shiping care. 

And  Eunice  ?  She  took  his  homage  rather 
as  a  matter  of  course,  and  was,  indeed,  a  little 
tired  and  distraite  on  the  way  to  Mrs.  Knight's. 
The  past  half-hour  had  brought  its  agitation  to 
her  as  well  as  to  Norman  and  Mary.  When 
she  left  them  in  the  library  she  had,  it  was 
true,  gone  to  the  morning  room,  but  she  had 
not  lingered  there.  By  the  casement  she  had 
hurried  out  to  the  veranda,  and  thence  with 
fleet,  noiseless  steps  through  the  flower-bor- 
dered garden  paths. 

Down  to  the  green  lane  gate  at  the  end  of 
the  rose  garden  she  had  gone  to  meet  Ralph 
Kidder,  not  daring  to  fail  of  being  there,  for 
this  was  the  hour  and  the  place  which  he  had 
named  in  a  bitter,  hasty  note.  Worse  things 
might  come  upon  her  if,  in  his  reckless  bold- 
ness, he  should  make  his  way  into  the  house 
and  into  Norman's  presence. 

It  had  been  a  tempestuous  meeting.  Ralph, 
consumed  with  a  passion  of  jealousy  and  resent- 
ment, had  poured  out  upon  her  a  storm  of 
bitter  reproaches  and  cynical  scornings,  under 
which  her  head  had  drooped  low,  like  a  flower 
under  the  blast  of  the  storm-wind.  Then  he 
had  veered  to  another  point  and  had  wooed 
her  to  come  back  to  him,  to  give  up  the  lover 
196 


flower 


who  was  neither  priest  nor  man,  but  a  self- 
deluded  Jesuit,  and  give  herself  again  to  his 
strong  heart  and  the  protection  of  his  arms. 
Eunice  trembled  more  under  this  attack  than 
she  had  under  the  first ;  her  eyes  grew  moist 
and  her  breath  came  quick  and  hard. 

Ralph  saw  these  tokens  of  the  old  tender- 
ness in  her  and  pressed  his  advantage  hard. 

"Come,  dearest,"  he  exclaimed  in  a  pas- 
sionate whisper,  "  come  just  as  you  are,  in  all 
this  loveliness,  though  I  hate  it  because  you 
have  dressed  yourself  for  his  eyes,  not  for 
mine.  Let  this  be  your  bridal  gear,  sweet- 
heart ;  cheat  them  all  !  They  are  only  a  pack 
of  priests  and  women.  I  swear  to  you  this 
night,  Eunice,  you  love  me  the  same  as  you 
ever  did  !  See,  you  cannot  deny  it. ' ' 

His  arms  were  around  her  now  and  he  was 
raining  light  kisses  upon  her  forehead  and  eyes 
in  spite  of  her  helpless  resistance. 

' '  Come  !  "  he  whispered,  ' '  what  can  you  fear 
with  me  to  defend  you  and  keep  you  from  all 
their  reproaches  ?  In  five  minutes  I  can  have 
a  closed  carriage  here  at  the  foot  of  the  lane. 
I  will  put  you  into  it,  darling ;  I  will  take  you 
to  some  clergyman.  Ah  !  how  he  will  open 
his  eyes  at  my  bonny  bride  !  And  then — and 
then,  Eunice,  you  will  have  nothing  more  to 
fear  or  dread.  I  shall  be  your  husband." 
197 


H  Tiding  fflowet 


The  last  words  were  spoken  low  and  with 
intense  emphasis  in  the  girl's  ear.  Her  head 
rested  now  on  his  shoulder.  Suddenly  she 
sprang  away  as  if  awakening  from  a  dream. 

"Ralph,  you  are  mad!"  she  cried  under 
her  breath.  "What  are  we  dreaming  of? 
Good-bye,  dear.  This  is  the  end." 

Ralph  Kidder  had  grown  suddenly  still  and 
cold.  He  made  no  motion  to  hinder  her,  but 
stood,  looking  fixedly  in  her  face  under  the 
pale  starlight. 

"It  is  not  the  end,  Eunice,"  he  said  slowly, 
"  not  the  end.  But  you  will  kiss  me  once  for 
good-bye?" 

' '  Once,  Ralph,  only  once,  and  then  I  will 
pray  and  pray  to  be  forgiven,"  and  so  she 
kissed  him  and  fled  back  through  the  rose 
bushes  to  the  house. 

The  drive  to  Mrs.  Knight's  was  not  too 
long  for  Eunice  that  night,  but  it  sufficed,  and 
she  held  up  her  head  with  as  light  a  grace 
when  she  entered  the  dazzling  drawing  room 
as  if  it  had  not  been  beaten  down  within  the 
hour  by  a  storm-wind  of  passion. 

Left  alone,   Mary  Herendean  went   slowly 
upstairs  and  turned  mechanically  into  Eunice's 
deserted  and  disordered  bedroom.     The  dress- 
ing table  was  strewn  with  the  customary  lit- 
198 


B  tdtno  fflowet 

ter  of  discarded  flowers  and  ribbons,  and  out 
of  the  incongruity  of  this  debris  looked  the 
face  of  Francis  Norman  from  its  place  on  a 
carved  easel. 

The  eyes  seemed  to  meet  Mary's  with  star- 
tling directness,  and  she  saw  lurking  in  their 
depths  what  she  had  never  seen  before,  the 
soul's  tragedy  which  was  going  on  behind  that 
quiet,  thoughtful  face.  Filled  with  unspoken 
yearning,  Mary  lifted  her  hand  and  pressed 
her  lips  fervently  upon  the  place  where  he  had 
kissed  it,  a  storm  of  color  dyeing  her  cheeks 
and  her  eyes  blind  with  tears.  In  her  right 
hand  she  still  held  unconsciously  the  long, 
sharp  rose-thorn  which  she  had  just  drawn 
from  Eunice's  dress. 

With  an  impulse  as  sudden  and  spontaneous 
as  that  which  went  before,  finding  the  thorn 
in  her  possession  still,  Mary  deliberately  drew 
its  sharp  point  twice  across  the  delicate  skin 
which  her  lips  had  just  pressed,  inflicting  two 
smarting  incisions  from  which  the  red  blood 
made  its  way. 

" There,"  she  said,  "I  will  be  a  ritualist 
too  to-night  !  There  is  my  penance  for  that 
sin." 

Then  throwing  herself  at  the  foot  of  Eunice's 
bed,  her  self-control  and  calmness  scattered  to 
the  winds,  Mary  Herendean  gave  herself  up 
199 


a  "CGltnD  fflower 

to  a  flood  of  hot  tears  which  those  who  knew 
her  best  would  have  thought  impossible. 

"  Oh,  the  shame  of  it,"  she  moaned,  "  and 
the  sin  and  the  hurt  of  it  !  How  can  I  help 
him  or  any  one  in  conflict,  when  every  day  I 
lose  my  own  battle  or  win  only  by  the  cowardly 
trick  of  running  away  ?  If  he  knew  what  is  in 
my  heart  how  he  would  despise  me  !  No,  not 
that,  but  worse,  how  he  would  pity  me  !  How 
cold  as  ice  his  kiss,  even  his  voice  was,  and 
yet  how  kind  !  And  he  could  speak  plainly 
to  me  because  I  do  not  care  and  would  not 
suffer  !  O  God,  have  pity  on  me,  for  my 
heart  will  break  !  Not  care  ? — when  I  tremble 
just  to  hear  his  voice  in  the  room  below  me, 
and  when  I  would  give  my  very  life  if  so  he 
might  find  rest  ! ' ' 

When  Eunice  returned  in  the  depth  of  the 
night  she  found  Mary  quietly  waiting  to  re- 
ceive her.  She  wore  a  trailing  dressing  gown 
of  soft  blue  wool  and  her  fair  hair  hung  in  a 
single  heavy  braid  down  her  back.  Eunice 
came  in  with  airy  step  and  in  gay  spirits. 

"How  sweet  you  look  in  that  gown,  you 
dear  thing,  only  your  eyes  are  heavy.  It  was 
too  bad  to  keep  you  up  so  late."  By  this 
time  she  had  reached  the  mirror  and  was 
studying  the  general  effect  of  her  reflection. 

"You  ought  to  have  gone  too.  Positively, 
200 


flower 


Mary,  I  believe  you  would  be  prettier  than  I  if 
you  had  on  these  things,"  and  Eunice  ran  off 
in  a  merry  ripple  of  laughter  at  her  own  con- 
ceit. "On  the  whole,  perhaps  not  prettier, 
and  you  have  no  notion  how  to  use  your  eyes, 
but  rather  magnificent,  stately,  don't  you 
know  ?  and  all  that.  Ah,  when  I  am  Mrs. 
St.  Cuthbert's  you  shall  walk  in  silk  attire 
with  the  best  of  them  !  There  —  don't  say 
anything.  I  understand  that  you  prefer  the 
society  of  coal  heavers  and  the  dissipation  of 
free  kindergarten  shows.  You  will  have  to  be 
giddy  though,  once  in  a  while,  then.  But, 
Mary,  I  can  tell  you  it  was  fine  to-night,"  and 
Eunice  stepped  out  of  the  great  disc  of  silk 
and  gauze  which  had  fallen  around  her  with  a 
gay  little  caper;  "you  should  have  seen  the 
court  your  small  sister  held  among  the  great 
ones  of  earth  !  I  was  a  success,  Mary.  I 
was,  upon  my  honor  !  I  am  simply  intoxicated 
with  being  flattered  like  that.  I  never  enjoyed 
anything  so  much.  Of  course  it  was  mostly 
on  Francis  Norman's  account,  but  some  of  it 
wasn't.  Tom  Ripley  was  in  a  state  over  my 
eyes,"  and  Eunice  in  her  pretty  petticoats 
tipped  her  head  back  and  made  eyes  at  herself 
in  the  glass  with  na'ive  delight.  '  '  I  like  a  lot 
of  men  on  the  whole  better  than  one,  even  if 
that  one  is  the  incomparable  Francis  !  But, 
201 


a  Wino  fflower 

Mary,  his  manner  is  simply  perfect.  I  fairly 
floated  on  it  all  the  evening  ;  can  you  under- 
stand ?  Perfect  reserve,  and  yet  that  delicate 
insinuation  of  being  charmed  to  plunge  out  of 
a  fifth  story  window  if  it  would  be  any  object 
to  you.  It  was  sport  to  have  Florence  Bar- 
ringer  there  to  see  it.  Poor  thing  !  She  had 
her  heart  encased  in  patent  duplex  armor  to- 
night, and  she  walked  right  up  and  took  me 
without  flinching,  as  if  I  had  been  a  battery.  It 
was  really  fine." 

Glancing  around,  she  found  that  she  was 
alone.  Mary  had  left  the  room,  closing  the 
door  noiselessly  behind  her. 


202 


XXIII 

JRANCIS  NORMAN  was  by  nature 
neither  cautious  nor  hesitating.  The 
' '  mean  and  measuring  eye  ' '  of  the 
man  who  schemes  for  his  own  advantage  was 
not  his.  It  may  have  belonged  to  the  accident 
of  a  life  of  external  ease  and  success,  that  con- 
siderations of  his  own  position,  and  of  what  he 
had  to  gain  or  lose  in  the  present  crisis,  did  not 
present  themselves  to  him.  His  place  of  power 
and  influence  was  not  to  him  for  a  moment  a 
thing  to  be  clung  to  or  grasped  at  for  its  own 
sake,  and  to  abandon  this  was  personally  the 
least  of  his  trials. 

The  ground  of  his  perplexity  was  solely 
whether  at  heart,  in  spite  of  many  fears,  he 
could  still  accept  the  system  to  which  he  stood 
committed,  or  whether  it  had  become  a  dead 
and  empty  thing.  If  dead,  it  was  still  dear  to 
him,  and  he  clung,  as  other  men  have  clung 
before  him,  in  such  crises,  in  an  agony  of  de- 
sire, to  the  hope  of  finding  life  still  left. 
Nevertheless,  the  instinctive,  indubitable  mas- 
ter-note of  the  man's  nature  was  sincerity. 

And  now  in  all  his  concentrated  anguish  and 


a  IBllno  fflower 

struggle,  the  palpitating  quick  of  it  was  the  old, 
awful  truth  :  "  None  of  us  liveth  unto  himself, 
and  no  man  dieth  unto  himself."  What  if  in 
his  loss  of  faith  he  should  drag  down  with  him 
those  whose  thoughts  he  had  himself  trained 
and  molded?  What  if  his  death  of  hope  meant 
that  death  to  many  others  ?  And  what  if,  after 
all,  his  fears  and  doubts  were  a  hideous  mis- 
take, were  what  he  had  always  held  them  in 
the  earlier  days,  a  messenger  of  Satan  to  buffet 
him?  Oh,  for  a  voice  of  God,  unmistakable 
and  clear  !  Oh,  for  the  open  vision  and  the 
answer  to  Mary's  prayer,  "Lead  him  in  a  plain 
path"! 

The  path  was  not  plain,  and  his  feet  trod 
thorns  at  every  step.  Through  the  remaining 
days  of  that  week  he  hardly  left  his  room,  and 
saw  no  one. 

Sunday  came.  It  was  the  hour  of  the  cele- 
bration of  solemn  high  mass  at  St.  Cuthbert's, 
and  the  supreme  moment  had  come  in  the  im- 
posing ritual.  The  crowds  of  worshipers  were 
on  their  knees  ;  the  clouds  of  incense  rose  and 
floated  high  as  the  dim  roof ;  voices  of  thrilling 
sweetness  swept  upward  as  the  clouds  of  incense 
in  the  words,  "  Hosanna  !  Hosanna  !  Blessed 
is  he  that  cometh  in  the  name  of  the  Lord  ! " 

Then,  in  the  silence  following,  a  bell,  deep- 
toned  yet  faint,  was  heard,  and  the  white-robed 
204 


H  TKatn&  flower 

acolytes  who  crowded  the  choir,  prostrated 
themselves  anew  at  the  sound  which  bade  them 
believe  that  the  Awful  Presence,  invoked  by 
the  priest,  had  become  real  in  the  mystic  Host. 

But  what  of  the  celebrant  priest,  who,  hav- 
ing consecrated  the  host  should  now  elevate  it 
before  the  eyes  of  the  people,  and  offer  it  as  a 
sacrifice  to  the  Most  High  God  ? 

Instead  of  kneeling  he  had  sunk  prostrate 
on  the  altar  steps.  Was  this  the  very  ecstasy 
of  devotion  ?  Or  was  it,  perchance,  the  ex- 
haustion of  the  long  fasts  and  vigils  by  which 
Father  Norman  sought  to  attain  to  the  purity 
of  the  saints  of  God  ? 

In  another  moment  the  priest  had  risen  to 
his  feet,  but  his  face  was  like  one  smitten  with 
death  itself,  white  and  appalling.  Turning 
from  the  altar  he  stepped  rapidly  forward  to 
the  chancel  rail  while  the  ranks  of  choir  boys 
and  attendants  stared  with  frightened  faces, 
and  the  people  held  their  breath. 

For  a  little  space,  like  Zacharias,  he  beckoned 
to  them  and  remained  speechless,  but  after  the 
space  of  some  seconds  he  spoke,  and  his  voice 
was  hoarse  and  strained  and  other  than  his  own. 

"The  hour  has  come,"  he  said,  "of  my 
defeat — utter — final.  I  have  fought  with  wild 
beasts,  but  it  has  availed  me  nothing.  I  be- 
lieved, even  against  belief,  that  in  this  awf.il 
205 


B  TIBlinD  Slower 

hour  God  would  reveal  himself,  but  it  is  not 
so.  He  hideth  himself;  he  is  as  one  afar  off. 
Not  again  can  I  approach  his  altar,  for  what 
saith  he  unto  me  ?  '  To  what  purpose  is  the 
multitude  of  your  sacrifices?  Bring  no  more 
vain  oblations ;  incense  is  an  abomination  unto 
me ;  your  new  moons  and  your  appointed 
feasts  my  soul  hateth  ;  they  ^are  a  trouble  unto 
me  ;  I  am  weary  to  bear  them.  And  when  ye 
spread  forth  your  hands  I  will  hide  mine  eyes 
from  you  ;  yea,  when  ye  make  many  prayers  I 
will  not  hear. '  ' ' 

A  hush,  profound  and  tense,  had  settled 
upon  the  congregation,  and  in  awe  and  con- 
sternation they  listened  as,  after  a  pause,  he 
said  with  something  like  a  dying  man's  last 
shadow  of  a  smile  : 

"  Beloved,  I  would  very  gladly  have  died  to 
save  you  from  this  hour,  but  death  for  me 
would  have  been  the  coward's  refuge.  I  must 
speak  plainly  and  for  the  last  time.  No  fur- 
ther portion  have  I  in  this  sanctuary ;  I  have 
no  power  to  summon  the  Divinity  to  rest  upon 
this  altar  ;  my  priesthood  is  at  an  end.  But  I 
here  protest  before  you  that  though  my  hold 
on  God  is  lost  to  my  own  undoing,  I  have  not 
handled  the  things  of  God  deceitfully.  Fare- 
well. You  who  pray,  pray  for  me."  And 
with  outspread  hands  he  dismissed  the  people. 
206 


XXIV 

|N  Monday  morning  little  Miss  Archi- 
bald might  have  been  seen  tripping 
hurriedly  up  Minster  Street  in  the 
direction  of  Francis  Norman's  house,  the  small 
silverwares  of  her  chatelaine  tinkling  musically 
as  she  went.  In  her  hands  she  held  very 
carefully  a  bowl  covered  with  a  white  napkin. 
Just  in  front  of  St.  Cuthbert's  she  encountered 
Sister  Bertha  and  Sister  Elizabeth,  who  stopped 
her  with  outstretched  hands. 

' '  A  tower  has  fallen  ! ' '  groaned  Sister  Ber- 
tha, while  with  tears  Sister  Elizabeth  added  : 

' '  A  star  has  set  !  What  is  to  become  of 
us?  Oh,  dear,  what  can  it  mean  ?  " 

' '  Mean  ?  ' '  cried  Miss  Archibald  briskly, 
"mean?  What  should  it  mean  but  that  the 
poor,  dear  man  has  brought  himself  to  the 
verge  of  desperation  with  being  too  religious 
for  any  use  !  I  tell  you  you  can  have  too 
much  of  a  good  thing — even  praying." 

The  sisters  murmured  a  faint  protest. 

"  But  to  think,  Miss  Archibald,"  exclaimed 
Sister  Elizabeth,  ' '  how  quickly  his  best  friends, 
as  one  would  suppose,  can  turn  against  him. 
207 


IBlinD  fflower 


The  Barringers,  I  understand,  think  it  was 
time  he  left  St.  Cuthbert's,  anyway,  and  are 
not  at  all  surprised  that  he  has  turned  out  just 
as  he  has. ' ' 

"Even  young  Ripley,  who  fairly  adored 
him,  said  last  night  that  he  'had  no  further 
use  for  Father  Norman,'  "  put  in  Sister  Bertha. 

"  Fancy  it  !  the  popinjay,"  said  Miss  Archi- 
bald viciously  ;  "  he  would  have  no  use  for  the 
angel  Gabriel  if  he  appeared  without  his 
wings,"  and  Miss  Archibald's  irritation  in- 
creased her  likeness  to  a  paroquet  noticeably. 

"The  trouble  began,"  she  went  on,  "when 
Father  Norman  became  engaged.  The  Bar- 
ringers  can  never  get  over  it.  Of  course  it 
was  not  what  many  of  us  looked  for  or  would 
have  wished.  But  I  say  it's  none  of  our 
business,  anyway,  and  if  one  thing  is  plainer 
than  another  it  is  that  the  man  needs  a  wife 
to  tend  to  him  properly  and  keep  him  from 
fasting  himself  to  death.  I  am  convinced  of 
one  thing — the  celibacy  of  the  clergy  is  all  a 
mistake  !  But  I  can't  stop  to  talk  about  it. 
Father  Norman  has  got  to  be  fed  up  the  first 
thing  !  I'm  taking  him  some  cream  of  celery 
now — just  what  he  needs.  Celery  is  splendid 
for  the  nerves,  you  know,  and  I  must  hurry 
along,"  and  Miss  Archibald  hastened  down 
the  street  with  nodding  crest 
208 


a  mind  fflower 


"She  wouldn't  talk  like  that  if  she  knew  of 
his  letter  to  the  bishop,"  said  Sister  Elizabeth, 
wiping  her  reddened  eyelids,  and  the  two 
faithful  souls  went  their  way  into  the  church  to 
spend  an  hour  in  prayer  for  Father  Norman. 

In  the  morning  room  of  Moses  Herendean's 
house  at  the  same  hour  Eunice  sat  in  trembling 
dread,  waiting  for  Norman  to  enter.  She  had 
seen  him  coming  down  the  garden  walk,  and 
she  held  in  her  hand  a  note  which  he  had  sent 
her  the  day  before  to  forewarn  her  of  what  she 
must  now  learn  more  fully.  She  had  been  ill 
since  the  night  of  Mrs.  Knight's  reception  and 
in  the  morning  light  she  looked  languid  and 
wan,  while  her  weariness  was  increased  by  a 
harassing  cough. 

There  was  a  step  in  the  hall  and  Norman 
entered.  Eunice  was  surprised  to  see  his  calm- 
ness and  quiet  in  spite  of  the  traces  of  a  severe 
ordeal.  In  greeting  her  his  voice  was  firm  and 
his  manner  freed  from  a  certain  unrest  which 
had  characterized  it  of  late. 

"This  is  not  true,"  she  said,  her  lips  quiv- 
ering, lifting  the  note  in  her  hand  ;  "  tell  me 
that  it  is  all  a  terrible  mistake.  I  cannot  be- 
lieve it.  You  could  not  look  like  this  if  you 
had  done  such  a  thing." 

"Dear,"  he  said,  touching  her  hand  with 
o  209 


flower 


soothing  gentleness,  "it  is  true  that  I  have 
done  this  thing  of  which  I  wrote.  It  is  true 
that  I  am  no  longer  the  rector  of  the  church, 
no  longer  the  priest.  My  letter  to  the  bishop 
can  leave  him  no  alternative  but  to  release 
me.  But,  love,  I  am  still  a  man,"  —  and  there 
was  a  new  touch  of  hope  and  power  in  his 
voice,  —  "perhaps  I  am  more  of  a  man  to-day 
than  I  ever  was  before,"  and  he  looked  ear- 
nestly into  Eunice's  face  as  if  in  appeal  for 
sympathy  and  response  to  his  thought.  But 
her  eyes  were  cast  down  and  she  drew  her 
hand  away  from  his  nervously. 

"  Poor  little  girl,"  he  said,  with  even  greater 
tenderness  than  before  ;  '  '  this  is  horribly  sud- 
den for  you.  I  ought  perhaps  to  have  talked 
with  you,  but  I  could  not,  Eunice.  I  would 
rather  spare  you  from  ever  knowing  what  I 
have  been  through.  It  would  do  you  no  good 
to  know  it,"  and  for  a  moment  the  darkness 
swept  over  his  face,  altering  its  look  painfully. 

'•'But  at  least  you  ought  to  let  me  know 
what  it  is  all  about,"  cried  Eunice  with  sud- 
den spirit,  casting  aside  the  awe  with  which 
she  had  never  ceased  to  regard  her  distin- 
guished lover.  "It  is  not  fair  to  destroy  all 
my  happiness,  all  my  life,  and  never  tell  me 
why." 

Norman  looked  at  her  with  surprise. 


B  TJCUnO  fflowet 

"  Not  your  happiness,  not  your  life,  Eu- 
nice," he  said.  "  Do  not  let  us  exaggerate  our 
trouble  ;  it  is  hard  enough  without  that.  While 
we  have  each  other  let  us  take  courage  and 
face  the  future  without  losing  heart.  The 
world  is  all  before  us,  we  are  young,  and  at 
least  we  are  free,"  and  a  thrill  of  suppressed 
feeling  was  in  his  voice. 

For  the  first  time  Eunice  lifted  her  eyes 
and  looked  fully  into  Norman's  face.  "Did 
you  do  this  thing  because  you  were  tired  of 
being  a  clergyman  ? ' '  she  asked  with  a  cer- 
tain coldness. 

He  looked  at  her  in  silence. 

"  Why  did  you  do  it?  "  she  persisted,  as  he 
made  no  reply  to  her  former  question.  "I 
really  feel  that  I  have  a  right  to  know." 

Norman  hesitated.  She  was  still  so  much 
of  a  child  he  feared  to  touch  her  with  the  chill 
of  his  bitter  experience. 

"Oh,  my  child,"  he  almost  groaned,  "it  is 
hard  to  tell  you  such  a  thing.  Eunice,  my 
faith  is  gone  ;  the  worst  thing  which  can  be- 
fall a  man  has  overtaken  me,"  and  his  face 
seemed  to  grow  gray  and  old  with  the  words. 

Eunice  looked  at  him  curiously.  "  Do  you 
mean  that  you  do  not  believe  the  creed  and 
all  that?"  she  asked. 

"I  could  not   repeat  the  Apostles'   Creed 

211 


B  MinD  fflower 

to-day  if  my  life,  nay,  if  your  life,  love,  de- 
pended," he  said  under  his  breath. 

Eunice  rose  from  the  chair  by  his  side  and 
took  another  at  a  little  distance,  something 
almost  like  impatience  in  her  movements. 

"  But  don't  you  fancy  a  great  many  men  in 
the  church,  clergymen,  I  mean,  do  not  be- 
lieve any  more  than  you  do,  but  still  they  do 
not  give  up  their  office  on  that  account?  I 
can't  quite  see  why  you  need  to  have  given  up 
everything  in  this  way  which  is  so  dreadful  to 
me  if  that  is  the  only  trouble. ' ' 

Again  Norman  was  silent,  but  he  studied 
her  face  with  a  rising  perplexity  and  trouble  in 
his  eyes. 

"  I  almost  wonder  that  you  did  not  think  of 
me  and  my  feelings  a  little,"  Eunice  con- 
tinued, irritated  by  his  steady  glance,  her 
courage  rising.  "Just  picture  the  position  I 
am  placed  in,  and  how  the  church  people  will 
talk.  Very  likely  they  will  think  it  is  all  my 
doing,  that  I  have  undermined  your  faith." 
and  Eunice  was  crying  a  little  now  with  the 
acute  sense  of  the  injury  which  had  been  done 
her. 

"Forgive  me,  Eunice,"  said  Norman  rising 
and  approaching  her  with  a  gesture  of  protect- 
ing tenderness  ;  "it  breaks  my  heart  to  see 
that  I  have  made  you  suffer.  I  have  been  so 
212 


&  IdinD  fflower 

selfish,  so  buried  in  my  own  sorrow  and 
struggle,  I  do  not  think  I  have  realized  that  it 
would  make  so  much  difference  to  you.  The 
cause  of  it  all  is  supremely  hard  for  us  both, 
but  I  thought,  you  know, — I  was  foolish 
enough  to  fancy, — that  while  we  belonged  to 
each  other,  and  could  bear  everything  to- 
gether— the  other  things  would  not  make  so 
much  difference  to  you." 

"Not  make  a  difference  to  me,"  she  ex- 
claimed, looking  up  passionately  through  her 
tears,  "whether  I  am  engaged  to  a  man 
whom  everybody  honors — yes,  worships — or 
to  a  minister  who  has  deserted  the  church, 
who  has  no  standing  anywhere  ?  You  cer- 
tainly could  not  think  of  living  in  Coalport 
after  this  !  "  she  added  pointedly,  her  excite- 
ment overriding  all  her  reverence  for  him  and 
her  natural  delicacy  of  feeling. 

"Eunice,"  Norman  said,  drawing  back  from 
her  and  clenching  his  hands  hard  together, 
"I  do  not  know  you.  I  do  not  understand," 
and  an  unspeakable  weariness  came  over  his 
face.  Involuntarily  his  thought  turned  to  Mary 
Herendean,  with  the  wish  that  she  would  come 
to  his  relief  and  take  this  strange,  perplexing 
tangle  into  her  steady  hands. 

"I  think  you  are  right,"  said  Eunice,  dry- 
ing her  eyes  and  rising  ;  "  I  do  not  think  you 
213 


a  TlClin&  fflowet 

do  understand  me,  nor  I  you.  I  feel  that  I 
have  been  very  strangely  treated.  You  seem  to 
have  left  me  out  of  consideration  altogether." 

"But,  Eunice,"  cried  Norman,  goaded  to 
indignation  at  last,  and  asserting  himself  with 
something  like  severity,  ' '  stop  and  think  what 
you  are  saying  !  Could  I  have  crowded  down 
my  conviction,  denied  what  I  knew  to  be  true, 
and  forced  myself  to  a  deceitful  and  dissembling 
course  of  action,  in  order  that  you  might  marry 
me  as  a  man  of  influence,  instead  of,  as  you 
delicately  suggest,  a  discredited  minister?  " 

"  You  put  it,  Francis  Norman,  in  the  worst 
possible  way,"  she  exclaimed  ;  "  but,  even  so, 
I  say  yes  !  If  you  really  loved  me  I  think  you 
would  have  put  me  first  ;  you  would  have  gone 
on  as  you  were  rather  than  involve  me  in  this 
frightful  humiliation." 

Norman  had  grown  white  to  the  lips  and 
the  light  in  his  eyes  was  stern  and  terrible. 

"Then  I  do  not  love  you,"  he  said  in  a 
low  voice,  in  contrast  to  hers,  which  was  high 
with  excitement,  "if  that  is  your  conception 
of  love." 

Eunice's  eyes  fell  before  his.  She  looked 
white  and  spent  ;  her  frame  shook  with  re- 
newed coughing  and  her  tears  began  to  flow 
again,  but  there  was  no  softening  in  Norman's 

face. 

214 


H  IdinD  JFlower 

' '  If  love  means  the  sacrifice  of  honor  and 
truth,  I  do  not  love  you,  Eunice,  and  I  will  go 
my  way  without  you,"  he  said  sadly. 

"  It  is  not  too  late,"  she  murmured,  over- 
awed by  Norman's  personal  power  as  she  had 
never  been  before,  so  that  she  trembled  before 
him,  and  yet  clinging  with  soft  obstinacy  to  her 
own  will  and  way;  "you  could  make  it  all 
right  yet,  if  you  would." 

"  How  so  ?"  he  asked  briefly. 

"  By  writing  to  the  bishop  again  and  saying 
you  were  willing  to  reconsider,  and  all  that. 
You  could  at  least  go  on  for  a  time  and  hope 
for  better  things,  and  they  might  come,  you 
know,"  she  added  timidly. 

"You  ask  what  is  impossible,  Eunice.  I 
have  hoped  long  and  it  has  been  in  vain," 
and  he  looked  at  her  with  the  great  and  sore 
amazement  which  had  taken  possession  of  him 
early  in  the  interview.  "There  is  only  one 
straight  course  for  a  man  in  my  place,  if  he  will 
not  lose  the  last  thing  left  to  him,  his  man- 
hood. I  supposed  that  was  so  plain  you  could 
not  fail  to  see  it." 

"  You  are  going  ?  "  she  asked  weakly,  long- 
ing to  throw  herself  into  his  arms  and  be 
forgiven. 

"Yes  I  must,"  he  said.  "I  will  come 
again  when  we  are  both  calmer  and  we  will 
"5 


&  TKHtnD  fflower 

hope  there  may  be  better  cheer.      Good-bye, ' ' 
and  Norman  left  the  room  and  the  house. 

When  he  reached  his  own  door,  walking 
rapidly  and  almost  like  one  dazed  through 
streets  in  which  he  saw  nothing,  an  impish  - 
faced  newsboy  ran  up  the  steps  after  him  and 
with  a  cunning  feint  of  innocence  said  : 

' '  Say,  mister,  buy  a  paper,  won' t  yer  ? 
Last  edition  to-night,"  and  he  held  out  a 
sheet,  smelling  of  fresh  printer's  ink,  before 
Norman's  eyes,  as  he  stood  with  his  key  in 
the  door. 

Norman  shook  his  head,  but  his  glance  me- 
chanically,   unavoidably,    took   in    a   heavily- 
printed  headline  held  uppermost:  "Apostate 
from    the    Faith!       An    Unfrocked    Priest! 
Coalporf  s  Latest  Sensation  !  ' ' 

For  a  moment  the  man  grew  dizzy  and 
leaned  against  the  door  for  support,  but  the 
gesture  with  which  he  dismissed  the  boy  was 
convincing,  and  he  entered  the  house  with  a 
steady  step,  albeit  in  his  face  was  something 
like  the  bitterness  of  death. 

When  the  newsboy  reached  the  sidewalk  he 
encountered,  drawn  up  in  line  of  battle,  an- 
other urchin  of  his  own  social  station,  who 
stood  before  him  with  fists  squared  and  breath 
hot  with  rage.  He  had  evidently  been  a  wit- 
ness of  the  small  scene  just  enacted. 
2 16 


B  IClino  jflower 

"  Lay  down  them  papers  now  and  come 
on  !  "  he  cried  between  his  set  teeth,  "  Yer've 
got  to  fight  me  !  " 

It  was  Joey  Ahern. 


217 


XXV 

|UNICE,  white  and  trembling,  had 
sunk  into  an  arm-chair,  and  it  was 
thus  that  Mary,  entering  the  room 
a  little  later,  found  her. 

Mary  had  met  Francis  Norman  in  the  hall. 
He  had  gone  past  her  without  speaking,  and 
she  had  seen  his  face. 

' '  Eunice  ! ' '  she  cried,  ' '  what  is  it  that  has 
happened  ? ' ' 

"I  am  not  quite  sure,"  replied  Eunice 
coldly;  "I  rather  think  though  that  I  have 
broken  my  engagement." 

Mary  sat  down  beside  her  sister  and  took 
her  little,  trembling  hands  into  her  own.  Her 
face  was  very  grave. 

"Tell  me,  dear,  what  thee  means,"  she 
said,  with  motherlike  gentleness. 

In  rapid,  broken,  incomplete  sentences,  Eu- 
nice poured  forth  her  story  of  Norman's  action 
on  Sunday,  and  of  her  interview  with  him  just 
now  concluded.  Her  sense  of  wounded  feel- 
ing and  resentment  grew  with  every  word. 
Shame,  disappointment,  chagrin,  were  the  dom- 
inant notes  in  her  recital ;  vehement  regret, 
218 


a  TOUnD  flower 

not  for  her  lover's  loss  of  faith,  but  for  his  loss 
of  prestige. 

As  she  listened,  a  slow  wonder  at  the  naive 
worldliness  of  Eunice  arose  in  Mary's  mind  as 
it  had  in  Norman's,  only  with  this  difference  : 
the  sister  knew  better  than  the  lover  what  to 
expect. 

"Eunice,"  she  asked,  "does  thee  realize  the 
terrible  suffering  which  Francis  Norman  has 
undergone  before  he  could  take  a  step  like 
this  ? ' ' 

"I  suppose  it  has  been  hard  for  him,"  re- 
plied Eunice  half  reluctantly. 

"  Hard  !  Oh,  my  dear,  while  thee  was  rest- 
ing in  the  morning  room  that  evening  before 
you  went  to  Mrs.  Knight's,  he  talked  with  me 
about  the  doubts  which  he  was  fighting,  and 
my  heart  never  ached  so  for  any  man  in  my 
life." 

"He  has  talked  with  thee  then  about 
this?"  asked  Eunice  with  a  look  of  keen  in- 
quiry in  her  sister's  face.  "  He  was  careful  to 
deceive  me  to  the  last  possible  moment." 

"Do  not  say  'deceive,'  Eunice ;  thee  knows 
it  is  no  word  to  use  of  Francis  Norman.  He 
told  me  that  he  could  not  bear  to  let  the  blight 
of  his  great  trouble  come  upon  thee.  It  was 
because  we  were  so  little  to  each  other  that 

he  could  talk  to  me." 

219 


21 1Bltn&  fflower 

Eunice's  eyes  fell  again  with  weary  indiffer- 
ence. 

"Dear  little  sister,"  Mary  continued,  com- 
manding her  voice  which  trembled  somewhat 
in  spite  of  her  will,  "I  almost  wonder  if,  being 
so  near  him  and  all  that,  thee  can  see,  as  an 
outsider,  a  stranger  almost,  can,  the  real  great- 
ness of  Francis  Norman' s  spirit. ' ' 

Eunice  raised  her  eyes  in  languid  wonder, 
and  looked  at  Mary. 

"  I  supposed  thee  and  father  thought  he  was 
an  utterly  deluded  man.  Thee  has  certainly 
shown  plainly  enough  what  thee  thought  of  his 
opinions." 

"Yes,"  Mary  said,  blushing  deeply  with  the 
remembrance  of  her  plainness  of  speech  on  one 
occasion,  "I  know  I  have.  But,  Eunice,  even 
if  we  cannot  feel  that  he  thinks  rightly  in  every 
respect,  we  must  not  fail  to  see  how  nobly,  how 
manfully,  how  self-denyingly,  he  has  stood  for 
what  he  thought  right." 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,"  said  Eunice;  "his 
views  are  rather  fashionable  just  at  present." 

"But  he  has  sought  no  gain  or  good  or 
prominence,  Una,  from  that  fact.  Have  we 
not  known  of  his  solitary,  devoted  life,  how 
he  who  is  through  and  through  the  artist  and 
the  poet,  has  put  from  him  all  that  ministered 
to  these  tastes?  how  he  has  given  himself  with- 
220 


a  IGUnD  fflower 

out  reserve  to  the  service  of  the  poorest  and 
humblest?" 

"I  never  expected,  Mary,"  said  Eunice 
half  impatiently,  "to  hear  thee  defending 
Francis  Norman  for  those  monkish  ideas.  I 
thought  Friends  held  all  such  things  to  be 
popish  vanities." 

"And  if  I  do  think  him  mistaken, — as  I  do, 
even  as  I  think  Friends  mistaken,  in  putting 
away  all  the  beauty  of  music  and  art  and  joy- 
ousness — still  it  was  a  mistake  high  and  pure  in 
its  source,  and  nobler  than  other  men's  com- 
placent conformities. ' ' 

Eunice  looked  at  her  sister  steadily. 

"Dear,  it  seems  strange  I  know,  for  me  to 
be  saying  all  this  to  thee,  for  thee  knows  him 
so  much  more  truly  and  inwardly,  and  yet  I 
cannot  help  it.  His  looks  to-day,  and  thine, 
frighten  me.  I  fear  thee  has  in  some  way 
failed  of  grasping  the  greatness  that  belongs  to 
him  even  in  his  downfall." 

Eunice's  lip  trembled. 

"Think,  dear,"  Mary  continued,  her  face 
full  of  a  fine  and  self-forgetting  ardor,  ' '  of  how, 
if  he  had  been  a  smaller  man,  he  would  have 
been  influenced  at  a  crisis  like  this  by  a  thou- 
sand small  personal  motives  to  compromise 
and  go  on  with  some  perilous  shift  and  avoid 
this  humiliation  for  thy  sake  and  for  his  own." 
221 


B  TldinD  Slower 

"I  don't  think  he  ever  thought  of  me  at 
all,"  murmured  Eunice  crying  softly;  "he  is 
away  off  from  me.  I  don't  understand  such 
great  people,  and  I'm  sure  they're  very  un- 
comfortable. Just  think  what  the  Barringers 
will  say,  and  how  everything  is  spoiled  just 
when  I  thought  it  would  be  so  lovely.  I  am 
sure  if  I  had  known  that  this  was  the  way  he 

was  coming  out,  I  would  never  have ' '  the 

word  "sacrificed"  was  on  Eunice's  lips,  but 
she  bethought  herself  just  in  time  and  stopped 
abruptly. 

"Eunice!"  Mary's  voice  had  a  startling 
ring. 

Eunice  looked  up,  with  a  sob  under  her 
breath. 

"Thee  cannot  mean  to  let  me  think  that 
thee  has  been  dealing  untruly  with  a  man  like 
Francis  Norman  ! ' ' 

Eunice  turned  away  her  head,  and  answered 
nothing. 

"Child,"  said  Mary,  low  and  urgently, 
"does  thee  know  what  it  is — a  strong  man's 
strong  nature  with  all  its  heights  and  depths  ? 
Has  it  entered  into  thy  heart  to  conceive  what 
love  means  to  such  a  man,  pure  and  great  and 
high-minded  ;  loving  not  with  fitful,  frivolous 
self-seeking,  but  as  men  love  God,  sternly  and 
simply  ?  O  Eunice,  the  greatest  gift  a  woman 


a  TICUnD  fflowet 

can  have  has  been  put  into  thy  hands,"  and 
all  the  lofty  earnestness  of  Mary  Herendean's 
nature  looked  from  her  sweet  eyes. 

"Oh,  dear  me,"  Eunice  sighed  plaintively, 
"everybody  is  in  such  a  state  !  I  don't  see 
why  thee  should  take  it  to  heart  so. ' ' 

"Forgive  me,  Una,"  Mary  said  gently,  "I 
am  afraid  I  said  more  than  I  ought ;  but  there 
is  one  thing  that  thee  must  not  forget,  dear  ; 
Francis  Norman  has  had  the  greatest  loss  a 
man  can  have  if  he  has  lost  his  faith  in  God." 

"  Oh,  what  a  dreadful  thing  to  talk  about  !  " 
said  Eunice  shivering. 

"Yes,  but  if  thee  can  help  him  to  win  back 
his  faith  think  what  thee  has  to  give  thee 
courage  and  make  thee  glad. ' ' 

Eunice  shook  her  head  slowly. 

"Yes,  little  sister,  I  know  what  I  said  just 
now  was  not  true.  Thee  does  love  Francis 
Norman  and  will  keep  thy  plighted  faith  to 
him  loyally  and  righteously." 

There  was  a  little  tremor  of  Eunice's  eye- 
lids. 

"And  now  I  do  believe  that,  very  slowly 
perhaps  but  certainly,  thee  can  lead  him  back 
to  his  lost  faith,  and  so  through  thy  love  he 
can  become  a  far  greater  man  than  he  ever 
could  have  been  without  this  fearful  awakening. 
He  is  in  a  sharp  struggle  now.  He  is  casting 
223 


a  TffilinD  fflowet 

off  the  superfluous  and  useless  weights  with 
which  his  faith  was  encumbered,"  Mary  went 
on  thoughtfully,  "and  he  is  not  yet  at  the 
end.  What  if  for  the  time  all  should  seem  to 
go  down  in  the  wreck? — there  will  come  a  day 
of  clearness  and  calm  after  the  tempest  and 
the  earthquake  when  I  believe  his  spirit  will 
awaken  to  hear  the  still  small  voice,  to  see  that 
which  is  Invisible,  and  he  will  be  led  into  the 
light  again." 

Mary's  face  grew  radiant  with  the  uplift  of 
her  thought. 

"And  thy  part  in  it,  love,"  she  cried  ten- 
derly, bending  to  kiss  Eunice  on  her  forehead, 
"is  to  wait  quietly  thy  time  and  then  to  help 
him  to  see.  Pure  in  heart  is  my  little  sister, 
and  blessed  are  the  pure  in  heart,  for  they 
shall  see  God,  and,  seeing,  they  may  make 
others  see.  Look.  Una,  is  it  not  happiness 
to  have  this  to  do  for  him  ?  ' '  and  there  was  a 
pathos  in  Mary's  voice  as  she  spoke  which 
touched  her  sister  strangely.  Nevertheless, 
Eunice  could  not  measure  up  to  Mary's  mood. 

"That  sounds  very  lovely,  Mary,"  she  re- 
plied with  chilling  unresponsiveness,  "and  I 
am  sure  thee  could  do  it  thyself  and  I  wish 
thee  had  the  chance.  It  would  suit  thee  much 
better  than  it  does  me.  I  never  supposed  I 
should  have  to  try  to  convert  a  minister.  I 
224 


B  lUmD  jf lower 

should  think  it  was  their  business  to  stay  con- 
verted themselves  and  convert  other  people. ' ' 

Mary  smiled  a  little. 

"If  Francis  Norman  had  just  kept  his 
doubts  to  himself  he  would  have  forgotten  all 
about  them  after  a  while  as  the  rest  of  us  do. 
Oh,  dear,  I  am  so  tired  of  everything  !  I 
wish  I  had  never  seen  or  heard  of  St.  Cuth- 
bert's  and  all  that  belongs  to  it.  Why  couldn't 
they  have  let  me  alone  ?  ' '  and  with  this  out- 
burst of  childish,  petulant  resentment  Eunice 
rose  from  her  chair  and  went  upstairs,  look- 
ing thoroughly  dejected  and  miserable. 

Mary  sat  still  in  her  place  looking  after  Eu- 
nice as  she  departed,  lost  in  thought. 

"Of  what  can  any  woman  be  made,"  she 
mused,  ' '  who  can  hold  Francis  Norman' s  love 
in  her  listless  hands,  as  uncertain  whether  it  is 
a  thing  to  be  kept  or  to  be  thrown  away  ?  Is 
she  more  or  less  than  human  ?  How  is  it  that 
she  can  think  and  speak  of  herself,  that  she 
can  coldly  upbraid  him  in  a  day  like  this  ?  that 
she  can  let  him  go  back  to  his  desolate  house 
uncomforted  ?  ' '  And  with  this  thought  a  great 
wave  of  compassion  overbore  every  other 
thought  in  Mary's  breast  and  her  whole  soul 
melted  in  pity  of  the  lonely  man,  fighting  his 
mortal  combat  single-handed  and  alone,  no 
man  and  no  woman  regarding. 
p  225 


B  TlCiino  fflower 

"And  I  could  go  to  him  myself,"  her  heart 
cried,  "and  I  would,  for  I  have  the  right;  he 
called  me  his  sister,  and  I  would  stand  by  his 
side  this  very  hour  and  tell  him  that,  whatever 
men  say,  I  know  that  he  is  true  and  upright 
in  heart ;  that  he  would  not  have  betrayed  the 
trust  men  placed  in  him  save  that  the  highest 
honor  bade  him  ;  that  I  know  the  meaning  of 
his  deep  anguish,  and  that  God  knows  and 
pities !  Ah,  would  I  not  do  this  ?  But  I 
cannot,  for  oh,  — Father  pity  me, — I  love  him 
— I  who  have  no  right — with  this  unmerciful, 
aching  love,  and  this  is  my  punishment,  that  I 
may  not  trust  myself  to  speak.  O  God,  make 
Eunice  Herendean  a  woman."  And  Mary 
spoke  these  last  words  aloud  in  her  stress, 
rising  and  stretching  out  her  clasped  hands 
with  a  strong  gesture  of  appeal. 


226 


XXVI 

|T  was  past  ten  o'clock  of  that  same 
evening,  and  Mary  Herendean  left 
Eunice's  bedroom  and  started  to  go 
to  her  own,  with  a  clouded  face.  She  had 
made  her  sister  comfortable  for  the  night  and 
Eunice  had  declared  that  she  was  going  di- 
rectly to  sleep  and  wanted  nothing  but  to  be 
left  alone,  but  she  had  seemed  weak  and  fever- 
ish and  Mary  felt  ill  at  ease  on  her  account. 

It  would  have  been  impossible  to  Mary 
Herendean  to  regard  Eunice  without  tender- 
ness. Even  now,  seeing  her  slight,  fleeting 
nature  breaking  down  utterly  under  the  pres- 
ent sharp  testing,  she  still  believed  that  a  better 
womanhood  was  latent  in  the  child,  to  be  shown 
forth  when  touched  by  the  right  influence. 

"  Oh,  to  be  wise,"  she  cried  to  herself,  "  to 
see  the  way  to  call  her  out  of  this  littleness,  to 
find  the  reality  of  her  nature,  instead  of  its 
surface  ! ' ' 

Moses  Herendean  stood  at  the  door  of  his 
room  as  Mary  came  through  the  hall.  He  had 
seen  the  evening  paper,  and  had  thrown  it  into 
the  fire. 

227 


21  TIClinO  fflower 


"This  is  true,  daughter,  that  we  hear  of 
Francis  Norman?"  he  asked,  detaining  her. 

Mary  nodded  her  head,  too  faint  at  heart  to 
speak. 

"This  is  a  day  of  close  proving  for  him," 
said  the  old  man  quietly,  "a  day  of  clouds 
and  thick  darkness  ;  but  it  is  a  day  which  must 
needs  come  if  I  have  rightly  read  the  man." 

Mary  looked  at  her  father  with  a  sudden 
dawning  of  light  in  her  eyes.  He  had  the 
clear  vision  ;  he  would  understand. 

"  Francis  Norman  has  interested  me  exceed- 
ingly," he  continued  ;  "I  have  seen  that  he 
was  in  a  false  position  from  which  a  break,  sud- 
den or  gradual,  must  inevitably  come.  Some 
men  can  live  forever  on  the  husks  of  things, 
but  he  cannot.  He  has  a  nature  dreamy  and 
poetic  perhaps,  and  so  peculiarly  open  to  a  cer- 
tain form  of  delusion,  but  I  believe  him  to  be 
absolutely  sincere." 

"  I  am  sure  that  is  true,"  Mary  murmured. 

"Some  men  have  a  kind  of  external  sin- 
cerity, something  like  a  garment  which  they 
can  put  off  and  on,  but  in  him  it  is  the  tissue 
and  fibre  of  his  will.  He  is  of  the  truth.  '  Every 
one  that  is  of  the  truth  heareth  my  voice. '  We 
must  all  stand  by  him  earnestly  now,  Mary.  I 
trust  that  Eunice  may  bring  him  good  comfort 
and  be  to  him  as  a  light  in  a  dark  place." 
228 


fflower 


Mary  did  not  reply,  but  in  silence  kissed  her 
father  good-night. 

Alone  in  her  room,  meanwhile,  Eunice  lay 
with  wide-open  eyes,  struggling  with  the  cough 
which  would  call  Mary  back  to  her  if  she  heard 
it,  struggling  harder  with  a  sudden  impulse 
which  had  arisen  within  her.  At  last  she  sat 
up  restlessly  in  bed,  turned  on  the  light  just 
above  her  head,  and  for  a  moment  seemed  lost 
in  thought,  her  face  white  and  piteous,  clouded 
with  perplexity. 

Then  suddenly,  as  if  a  definite  conclusion 
had  been  reached,  she  sprang  to  the  floor  with 
nervous  quickness,  ran  barefooted  to  her  desk, 
gathered  writing  materials  from  it,  and  then 
returned,  chilled  from  head  to  foot.  For  a 
moment  she  lay  huddled  in  a  little  shivering 
heap,  but  soon  she  was  warm  and  relieved, 
and  drawing  around  her  shoulders  a  little 
brown  shawl  which  lay  on  the  bed,  with  a 
curiously  cold  smile,  she  began  to  write  with 
eager,  tremulous  haste. 

The  letter  written,  sealed,  and  ready,  Eunice 
sat  meditating  on  some  plan  for  its  immediate 
posting.  Glancing  at  her  clock  she  found  it 
half-past  ten  already  ;  with  eleven  all  chance 
for  to-night  would  be  over.  Plainly  there  was 
no  one  in  the  house  to  whom  she  could  entrust 
the  care  of  mailing  this  letter,  for  Mary  must 
229 


fflower 


never  know  that  it  had  been  written.  It  must 
go  to-night,  and  it  was  only  to  step  down  to 
the  corner  of  the  lane  ;  the  night  was  fine  ; 
she  really  was  not  sick  at  all,  just  tired  with  all 
this  worry,  and  of  course  she  did  take  a  little 
cold  down  in  the  rose  garden  that  night  ;  yes, 
her  mind  was  made  up. 

With  noiseless  motions  Eunice  rose  and 
dressed,  wrapped  herself  in  a  heavy  cloak, 
turned  down  her  light,  and  softly  made  her  way 
to  the  stairs  in  the  rear  of  the  house,  avoiding 
that  part  of  the  hall  into  which  Mary's  room 
opened.  A  moment  later  she  had  opened  the 
servants'  door  into  the  garden,  and  with  light, 
winged  steps,  she  sped  down  the  path  between 
the  flower  beds,  faint  with  sweet  odors  of  May 
lilies,  to  the  green  lane  gate  among  the  rose 
bushes.  There  was  a  big  round  moon  in  a 
white  sky  above  her,  with  a  weak  halo  rimming 
it  ;  the  moon  seemed  to  stare  at  Eunice  un- 
comfortably. When  she  pushed  open  the  gate 
and  stepped  through,  the  lane  looked  dark  and 
fearsome,  and  her  hands  shook  so  that  she 
nearly  dropped  her  letter,  but  with  nerve, 
rather  than  with  courage,  she  kept  on,  and  ran 
all  the  way  to  the  corner,  where  she  slipped 
the  letter  into  the  lamp-post  box.  Some  men 
strolling  by  singing,  stared  at  her  rudely,  and 
she  grew  faint  with  fear,  but  they  did  not 
230 


B  "CUinO  flower 


speak,  and  she  ran  back  safely  to  the  house  by 
the  way  she  had  come,  crept  up  the  stairs,  and 
found  with  unspeakable  relief  that  her  absence 
had  not  been  discovered. 

"A  bad  quarter  of  an  hour,  to  be  sure," 
she  said  to  herself,  as  she  turned  out  her  light 
and  laid  her  head  again  upon  the  pillow,  all 
her  pulses  beating  it  seemed  like  great  engines ; 
' '  but  it  may  be  worth  it  all.  There  is  one  per- 
son left  yet,  I  guess,  to  pity  this  poor  little  girl, 
if  only  he  can  forgive  me. ' ' 


231 


XXVII 

|WO  days  later,  in  a  drenching  spring 
rain,  Francis  Norman  entered  the 
low  iron  front  gate  at  the  Willow 
Street  house  once  more  and  hurried  down  the 
walk  strewn  with  wet  leaves  between  the  rows 
of  drowned  tulips.  A  doctor's  carriage  was 
being  driven  out  by  the  side  entrance  at  the 
same  moment,  and  while  he  waited  on  the 
porch  longer  than  usual  the  postman  came 
down  the  path  behind  him  and  with  a  word  of 
apology  handed  him  a  letter  to  be  delivered 
within.  The  letter  was  addressed  to  Eunice 
in  a  man's  hand  and  was  postmarked  New 
York.  These  points,  however,  Francis  Nor- 
man did  not  note,  and  handed  the  letter  to 
the  housemaid  as'  he  went  in,  saying  casually 
he  believed  it  was  for  Miss  Eunice  and  would 
she  ask  her  if  he  might  see  her  for  a  short  time 
at  once. 

The  maid  ran  upstairs  and  Norman  entered 
the  library,  where  he  found  Moses  Herendean 
reading  alone. 

"  Eunice  is  not  ill,  I  trust?  "  he  asked  anx- 
iously after  he  had  greeted  the  old  man. 
232 


H  "OdinO  flower 

"Yes,  I  regret  to  say,"  replied  Moses  Her- 
endean,  "  that  she  is  seized  with  what  threatens 
to  prove  a  severe  illness.  The  doctor  this 
morning  speaks  of  pneumonia,"  and  the  father's 
face  was  troubled  in  spite  of  its  serious  com- 
posure. 

While  they  were  discussing  her  condition 
Eunice  in  her  room  upstairs  lay  with  lustreless 
eyes  and  pale,  parted  lips,  through  which  her 
hot  breath  came  over-fast.  Mary  was  absent 
from  the  room  preparing  remedies  which  the 
doctor  had  directed. 

<%Mr.  Norman  has  come,  Miss  Eunice," 
said  the  maid,  coming  to  the  bedside  with  the 
letter  in  her  hand  ;  "  he  wants  to  see  you  most 
especial,  if  he  can,  and  he  sends  you  this  letter, 
miss,  though  perhaps  it  was  the  postman  gave 
it  to  him." 

Eunice  took  the  letter  with  eager  haste  from 
the  maid's  hand. 

"  How  very  obliging  of  him,"  she  said  in  a 
weak,  hoarse  voice  and  with  a  faintly  ironical 
smile  as  she  saw  the  handwriting,  while  a  rosy 
flush  covered  her  face  and  neck,  which  had 
been  unnaturally  white  before. 

The  maid  stood  waiting,  but  Eunice,  tearing 

open  the  envelope,  which  fell  on  the  carpet, 

opened  the  letter  and  glanced  at  the  first  words. 

At  sight  of  them  a  sudden   brightness  came 

233 


a  TKfltno  fflower 

into  her  eyes  and  seemed  to  transform  her  face. 
She  leaned  back  upon  the  pillow,  under  which 
she  thrust  the  letter. 

"  Maybe  it  ain't  good  for  you,  Miss  Eunice, 
to  get  that  excited  like,"  murmured  the  maid. 

"That's  all  right,  Betty,"  she  said  weakly. 
"Tell  my  sister  to  come  here  as  soon  as  she 
can." 

In  a  moment  Mary  was  at  the  bedside,  but 
even  as  she  approached  she  stooped  and  picked 
up  the  torn  envelope  which  had  fallen  from 
Eunice's  hand.  A  glance  at  it  sent  a  vivid 
flush  to  Mary's  cheeks. 

"Why,  Eunice,"  she  cried,  "this  is  Ralph's 
writing  !  How  can  he  dare  to  write  to  thee 
after  father  has  forbidden  him  ever  to  do  so 
again  ? ' ' 

"  No  matter,  Mary;  don't  worry  me  about 
it  now  when  you  see  how  sick  I  am.  Francis 
Norman  is  downstairs  and  you  will  have  to 
see  him.  I  certainly  can't." 

There  was  a  brief  but  earnest  argument  be- 
tween the  sisters,  in  which  Eunice  held  her 
ground,  and  then  Mary  hastened  down  to  the 
hall  below.  Norman,  who  had  been  intently 
listening  for  a  step,  met  her  at  the  foot  of  the 
stairs. 

"What  does  she  say  ?  "  he  asked  with  pierc- 
ing anxiety  in  his  eyes. 
234 


B  TIClin&  flower 

"She  cannot  see  you,"  was  Mary's  answer. 

"  No.  I  was  sure  it  would  not  be  best  after 
your  father  told  me  of  her  condition.  Is  it  all 
my  doing,  Mary  ?  I  feel  almost  as  if  I  had 
killed  the  sweet  child  with  my  own  hand.  I 
did  not  dream  she  was  ill  at  all  when  I  was 
here.  It  accounts  for  so  much,  and  I  must 
have  been  a  savage  to  speak  as  I  did  to  her. ' ' 

Mary  looked  down,  sorely  troubled.  "  Do 
not  feel  so,"  she  said  gently.  "I  cannot 
think  it  is  what  you  did  altogether,  but  yester- 
day she  grew  worse  very  suddenly  and  we 
cannot  comprehend  the  cause.  She  certainly 
did  not  seem  really  ill  the  day  you  saw  her.  I 
do  not  understand, ' '  and  Mary  shook  her  head 
sadly  ;  ' '  but  I  cannot  leave  her  a  moment. ' ' 

"  Did  she  send  me  any  message  ?  "  Norman 
asked  almost  pleadingly. 

' '  Yes,  that  is  the  hardest  of  all, ' '  said  Mary. 
Tears  were  in  her  eyes  and  she  did  not  lift 
them  to  Norman's  face.  "She  says  you  must 
not  expect  to  see  her.  She  feels  that  the  en- 
gagement has  been  a  mistake  and  she  wants 
you  to  release  her.  She  will  return  your  let- 
ters. ' '  Mary  repeated  the  brief  sentences  with 
a  manner  cold  through  the  severity  of  the  re- 
straint she  was  laying  upon  herself,  and  with 
the  last  words  she  held  out  her  hand  and  gave 
something  into  his. 

235 


a  TWltnC>  fflower 

"What  is  this?"  he  cried  sharply,  his  face 
grim  and  stern  with  pain.  It  was  the  ring  he 
had  given  Eunice. 

' '  Please  spare  me  that, ' '  he  said  with  forced 
calmness,  replacing  it  in  her  hand  ;  "  throw  it 
away,  if  you  will,  for  me.  The  letters  would 
better  be  burned, ' '  he  added  deliberately.  ' '  I 
shall  not  be  in  Coalport  to  receive  them." 

' '  Where  are  you  going — when  ? ' '  faltered 
Mary. 

"This  week,  somewhere, — I  hardly  know 
where, — but  I  will  send  an  address.  I  shall 
wait  until  you  let  me  know  that — she  is  better, 
and  then,  when  there  is  no  chance  that  I  could 
be  needed,  I  shall  go  as  far  forth  as  I  can,  the 
farther  the  better ;  the  world  is  wide.  I  want 
to  drop  out  of  sight  completely.  Why  should 
I  not  ?  Will  you  say  good-bye  ?  Can  you 
forgive  me  ?  " 

Mary  could  not  speak,  but  she  held  out  her 
hand.  He  clasped  it  for  an  instant  and  hur- 
ried from  the  house. 


236 


XXVIII 

RANCIS  Norman  spent  the  two  suc- 
ceeding days  in  writing  all  letters  and 
making  all  preparations  necessary  to 
a  prolonged  and  indefinite  absence.  The  care 
of  church  and  parish  could  be  left  in  his  as- 
sistant's hands,  and  from  no  point  of  view 
was  it  desirable  for  the  sake  of  the  church 
that  he  should  linger  in  Coalport.  His  house- 
keeper and  servants  he  dismissed  out  of  hand 
and  saw  them  depart,  amazed  but  well  pleased 
with  a  liberal  advance  of  wages. 

The  hardest  thing  he  had  to  do,  and  yet  a 
task  which  he  would  not  spare  himself,  was  to 
pay  a  few  visits  to  those  who  had  stood  nearest 
to  him  in  the  church  and  to  whom  he  was 
under  the  obligation  of  this  personal  attention. 
It  was  an  experience  even  harder  than  he  had 
anticipated  ;  but  he  was  inured  to  self-disci- 
pline, and  he  went  through  it  without  faltering. 

Miss  Archibald,  though  plainly  extremely 
shocked  at  his  course,  was  still  loyal  and  sym- 
pathetic, and  at  pains  to  smooth  his  pathway 
so  far  as  lay  in  her  power.  She  was  confident 
that  he  would  get  all  over  this  little  episode 
237 


H  WinD  fflowet 

and  come  back  to  them  by  and  by  just  as  dear 
and  good  as  ever.  They  could  never  have  a 
rector  who  could  take  his  place,  and  do  among 
them  such  a  work  as  he  had  done. 

"Your  only  fault,  Father  Norman,"  she 
assured  him,  amid  plentiful  tears,  as  she  said 
good-bye,  "is  that  you're  too  good,  too  spirit- 
ual, and  take  things  harder  than  you  need  to." 

In  the  various  visits  which  followed,  Nor- 
man met  sometimes  the  coldness  that  he  ex- 
pected, sometimes  the  reproaches,  and  hardest 
of  all,  the  pity  of  those  accustomed  to  revere 
and  honor  him. 

His  last  call  was  at  Mrs.  Barringer's.  Miss 
Barringer  alone  of  the  family  was  at  home. 
When  Norman's  card  was  brought  to  her  in 
her  room  she  looked  at  it  with  a  sharp  com- 
pression of  the  lips  and  told  the  maid  to  say 
that  she  was  engaged.  Then,  with  a  sudden 
impulse,  she  ran  and  caught  the  maid  at  the 
head  of  the  stairs,  and  bade  her  tell  Mr.  Nor- 
man that  she  would  see  him.  Then  she 
paused  a  little  space,  looking  at  herself  atten- 
tively in  the  glass.  She  was  dressed  for  a  din- 
ner and  looked,  as  she  always  looked,  her 
best  in  sumptuous  attire.  There  was  un- 
troubled repose  in  her  face,  and  the  quietness 
of  assurance  undisturbed  in  the  very  way  she 
held  herself.  She  knew  this  and  she  guessed 
238 


TJCUnD  Jflower 


what  its  effect  might  be  upon  the  tossed  and 
troubled  spirit  of  Francis  Norman.  Very 
well,  let  it  have  its  effect.  This  man  had  com- 
mitted the  crime  of  walking  with  unseeing 
eyes  past  his  highest  opportunity.  Failing  to 
see  that  the  royal  flower  had  swung  to  the 
reach  of  his  hand,  he  had  stooped  to  gather 
and  lay  on  his  heart  instead  an  insignificant, 
pale  wild  flower.  The  man  was  bent,  it 
seemed,  on  his  own  humiliation.  Let  him  see 
then,  once  more,  the  height  from  which  he 
had  fallen. 

It  was  thus  in  all  her  stately  beauty,  with  a 
manner  perfect  to  her  conception  of  the  oc- 
casion, cold  and  quiet,  yet  not  ungracious, 
that  Florence  Barringer  presented  herself  be- 
fore Norman  to  receive  his  final  adieu. 

He  had  always  admired  her,  had  always 
been  impressed  and  interested  by  the  quality 
and  poise  of  her  character,  and  a  faint  smile 
of  pleasure  passed  over  his  face  as  he  advanced 
to  greet  her  now,  with  his  unchanged,  high- 
bred grace. 

Florence  Barringer  had  keen  perceptions. 
She  might  have  resisted  the  influence  of  his 
personal  regard,  but  she  saw  that  in  his  face 
which  mastered  her  womanhood  and  laid  low 
the  defenses  of  pride  and  coldness  behind 
which  she  had  thought  to  meet  him.  For 
239 


IDlinD  Slower 


Norman  bore  in  his  face  the  stamp  of  the  de- 
cisive conflict  he  was  waging,  which,  while  it 
seamed  and  marred  his  visage  with  deep  and 
painful  lines,  yet  produced  in  it  a  power  which 
Florence  Barringer  had  never  seen  there  be- 
fore, the  greatness  of  a  real  contest,  with  real 
and  not  imagined  forces.  On  the  instant  she 
felt  that  she  had  come  to  him  as  a  child  might 
bring  its  pettiness  to  the  notice  of  a  mighty 
man  absorbed  in  mighty  things.  When  they 
were  seated  and  she  lifted  her  eyes  to  meet  his 
look,  Francis  Norman  saw  in  them  an  awe 
which  he  never  had  dreamed  of  meeting  there, 
and  she  spoke  and  moved  in  his  presence  with 
a  humility  and  hesitation  foreign  to  herself. 

There  was  little,  however,  that  could  be  put 
into  speech  between  them.  Besides  the  after- 
noon was  far  advanced  and  Norman's  time 
was  short.  He  was  to  leave  Coalport  in  a  few 
hours.  He  rose  to  go.  At  the  moment,  Mr. 
Barringer  had  come  into  the  hall,  and  now 
presented  himself  at  the  door. 

"Ah  !  Norman,"  he  said  coolly,  "how  do 
you  do?  Just  going,  eh?  Well,  I  suppose 
we  shall  have  to  say  good-bye  to  you  ? 
Understand  you're  off  for  Europe  for  a  long 
tour?" 

Norman  assented. 

"That's  a  good  scheme.  You  look  tired 
240 


S  1KUn&  fflower 

out,  and  you  have  stuck  pretty  close  to  busi- 
ness, I  guess.  A  man  gets  morbid  if  he 
doesn't  have  a  let-up  now  and  then." 

Norman  bent  his  head  slightly  and  stood 
thus  without  reply. 

"You  strained  things  just  a  little  too  hard, 
I  guess,  down  there,  and  the  bow  snapped  at 
last.  Well,  you'  re  a  lucky  fellow  to  be  able  to 
take  yourself  off  when  you  please.  I  can't 
leave  my  business  in  that  way." 

Florence  Barringer  attempted  to  speak,  but 
her  father  did  not  notice  her  and  continued  to 
address  Norman. 

"You'll  turn  your  attention  to  art  now, 
won't  you?"  he  asked  carelessly.  "  I  always 
thought  your  tastes  were  in  that  direction. 
Well,  that's  all  right.  All  I  say  is  that  if  you'd 
been  a  poor  man,  with  a  wife  and  children, 
you'd  have  had  to  swallow  down  your  scruples 
and  stick  to  your  work.  It  isn't  every  man 
who  can  afford  to  indulge  his  speculations 
quite  to  this  extent." 

Norman  bowed  with  fine,  forbearing  courtesy 
and  moved  toward  the  door. 

"By  the  way,  you  may  be  interested,"  Mr. 
Barringer  added.  "  I  met  the  bishop  in  New 
York  this  morning,  and  he  told  me  he  had  just 
the  man  for  St.  Cuthbert's — could  put  his 
hand  right  on  him." 

Q  241 


fflower 


"I  am  exceedingly  relieved  to  hear  this, 
Mr.  Barringer,"  said  Norman  gently.  "It  is 
what  I  most  desired,"  and  with  a  few  words 
he  parted  from  father  and  daughter. 

It  had  been  a  week  of  bad  weather,  and  the 
rain  had  set  in  again,  Norman  found,  when 
he  came  out  again  into  the  street,  and  a  gusty 
wind  was  blowing.  At  the  street  corner  he 
met  Tom  Ripley,  who  passed  him  with  civil 
but  brief  salutation.  Tom  knew  that  he  was 
about  leaving  town,  for  Norman  had  written 
him  to  that  effect  and  suggested  his  coming 
to  see  him  at  his  house.  Ripley  had  not, 
however,  acted  upon  the  suggestion. 

"Tom  is  tenacious  of  his  theology,"  Nor- 
man said  to  himself,  smiling  a  little  cynically, 
hurt  unreasonably  by  the  young  fellow's  de- 
fection. "I  should  be  loth,  indeed,  to  com- 
promise his  orthodoxy,  and  I  suppose  I  am 
rather  a  dangerous  person  now.  '  ' 

As  he  went  on,  buffeted  by  the  wind,  the 
rain  beating  against  his  unprotected  face,  he 
walked  in  bitterness  of  spirit  to  the  rhythm  of 
a  haunting  verse  which  would  not  leave  him  : 

I  go  in  the  rain,  and,  more  than  needs, 
A  rope  cuts  both  my  wrists  behind  ; 

And  I  think,  by  the  feel,  my  forehead  bleeds, 
For  they  fling,  whoever  has  a  mind, 

Stones  at  me  for  my  year's  misdeeds. 
242 


H  TKflinD  flower 

In  the  empty,  echoing  house  in  Minster 
Street,  Norman  did  not  betake  himself  as 
formerly  to  his  narrow,  cell-like  apartment  up- 
stairs. It  was  closely  locked  and  left.  He 
went  into  the  great  library  beyond  the  drawing 
room.  The  room  was  chilly  and  close  and 
dark  already.  The  fires  had  gone  out  in  the 
house,  and  there  was  no  one  within  its  walls  to 
minister  to  his  needs.  Wet  and  shivering, 
with  such  fuel  as  he  could  lay  his  hands  on,  for 
he  had  lived  in  total  ignorance  of  the  domestic 
matters  of  his  house,  he  tried  to  light  a  fire  in 
the  empty  grate.  The  gloomy  silence  of  the 
place,  with  its  heavy  furnishings  and  stiff  un- 
usedness,  was  overpowering.  The  fire  flickered 
up  for  a  moment,  then  smoked  and  died  out. 

"No  fire  on  my  hearth  to-night,"  thought 
Norman,  and  went  to  the  upper  regions  to 
make  ready  for  his  journey. 


243 


XXIX 

|T  was  seven  o'clock  and  growing  dark 
when  Francis  Norman,  clad  in  an 
ordinary  rough  tweed  traveling  suit, 
stood  on  his  doorstep  and  looked  out  into  the 
storm  which  had  increased  in  violence. 

"Life  is  over,"  he  said  to  himself.  "  Now 
for  existence  !  It  is  perhaps  a  trifle  grim  to 
have  no  one  to  see  me  off,  but  it  is  all  of  a 
color." 

He  set  his  small,  leather  bag  on  the  tiled 
floor  of  the  vestibule,  and  with  some  deliber- 
ation locked  and  double  locked  the  heavy  front 
door,  dropping  the  key  into  his  pocket. 

"Who  shall  unlock  this  door  again?"  he 
asked  himself,  ' '  and  when  ? ' ' 

He  turned  to  descend  the  steps,  and  was 
aware  for  the  first  time  of  the  small  figure  of  a 
boy  in  rain-sodden  garments,  clinging  to  the 
rail,  on  the  lower  step.  A  second  glance  and 
he  recognized  Joey  Ahern. 

"Why,  Joey,"  he  said,  holding  out  his 
hand  with  a  smile  to  the  little  fellow  ;  "what 
are  you  doing  here  in  the  rain  ?  Hurry  home 
to  your  mother. " 

244 


flower 


"No,  sir,  Father  Norman,  I  ain't  goin' 
home  ;  I'm  goin'  along  with  you,"  and  a 
moisture  of  a  different  species  from  the  rain 
which  dripped  from  his  cap  appeared  in  Joey's 
light,  round  eyes. 

By  this  time  Norman  was  walking  rapidly 
down  the  street,  Joey  following  hard  after  him. 

"  I'll  keep  close  to  yer  heels,  Father  Nor- 
man, jes'  like  ye  told  me  to  that  night  when 
ye  went  home  with  the  lady." 

There  was  no  reply.  On  they  went,  Nor- 
man a  step  or  two  in  advance. 

"  Please,  sir,  may  I  carry  yer  bag  ?  " 

"No,  Joey.  Here's  a  quarter,  my  boy. 
Now  run  home,  as  I  tell  you.  '  ' 

"I  don't  want  no  quarter,"  said  Joey 
hotly;  "that  ain't  wat  I'm  after.  You'd 
ought  ter  know  that  wa'n't  it." 

"You  came  simply  as  a  friend,  didn't  you, 
Joey,  to  see  me  off?"  asked  Norman  gravely. 
"  Now  that  was  kind.  But  how  did  you  know 
I  was  going  away  ?  '  ' 

"The  cook  told  me  mother,  sir.  Sure, 
she's  second  cousin  to  me  uncle's  wife,  and 
she  said  as  how  yer  was  fer  shuttin'  up  the 
house,  and  I  thought  mebbe  yer  was  kinder 
down  on  yer  luck,  and  I'd  like  to  have  yer 
know  I  feel  awful  bad,"  and  Joey  sniffled  vio- 
lently. 

245 


a  Idinfc  fflower 

"Walk  by  my  side,  Joey,"  said  Norman, 
waiting  a  moment.  "It  is  only  when  I  am 
escorting  young  ladies  that  I  wish  you  to  keep 
at  my  heels.  And  so  you  feel  sorry  that  I  am 
going  away  ?  I  rather  like  that  notion,  Joey. 
It  seems  to  suit  me  particularly  well  to  have 
you  care  about  it.  We  always  were  pretty 
good  friends,  don't  you  think  so?  But  now 
here  is  the  car  I'm  going  to  take,  and  I'll  give 
you  five  cents  to  take  the  other  car  yonder 
down  to  your  house.  You  must  not  try  to 
walk  to  the  mines  to-night ;  you  would  be  car- 
ried off  in  the  torrents."  Then  looking  at 
the  miserable,  water-soaked  and  tearful  little 
fellow,  he  added  whimsically:  "The  flood- 
gates have  been  loosed  already  sufficiently, 
haven' t  they  ?  I  almost  feel  like  tears  myself. 
However,  Joey,  listen  to  what  I  have  to  say. 
Miss  Mary  Herendean,  whom  you  have  seen 
sometimes  down  at  the  settlement — Miss  Mary, 
remember,  will  have  some  money  which  I  shall 
arrange  to  leave  with  her  for  your  mother,  for 
coal  and  rent  and  things,  you  know.  I  will 
see  that  she  understands  that  it  is  to  be  paid  the 
first  of  every  month.  You  will  go  for  it  your- 
self, Joey,  will  you  ?  And  she  will  perhaps 
look  after  you  a  little.  Good-bye  ! ' '  and  Nor- 
man swung  himself  on  the  passing  car. 

As  he  approached  the  station,  he  was  sur- 
246 


S  "WninS  flower 


prised  to  see  Moses  Herendean's  family  chariot, 
with  its  peculiar  black-beetle  outline  and  its 
staid  old  horse,  driven  up  by  the  venerable 
Simeon  with  something  approaching  rapidity. 
As  he  drew  near,  Mary  Herendean  alighted 
from  the  carriage  and  met  Norman  face  to 
face  just  as  he  stopped  under  the  dripping 
station  roof. 

"Oh,  I  have  met  you!"  she  exclaimed, 
with  joyful  surprise,  and  held  out  both  hands, 
too  full  of  her  thought  of  him  to  remember 
that  she  loved  him — to  remember  herself  at 
all.  There  was  a  rich  glow  in  her  cheeks,  her 
fair  hair  was  flurried  by  the  wind  into  a  soft 
cloud  on  her  forehead,  and  her  face  was  eager 
and  beautiful.  "I  came,  thinking  you  might 
be  leaving  by  the  express,"  she  went  on, 
speaking  rapidly. 

They  both  remained  standing  in  the  shadow 
of    the   carriage,    while    the   ancient    Simeon 
watched    his   dripping    horse    with    a    gravely:' 
reproachful  countenance. 

' '  Well  ?  ' '  Norman  asked,  looking  earnestly 
into  her  face. 

' '  There  are  two  things  you  ought  to  know, 
Francis  Norman,"  Mary  began,  "before  you 
leave  Coalport.  One  is,  that  Eunice  is  un- 
doubtedly better,  and  we  think  will  escape  the 
worst  we  feared  ;  and  the  other — "  here  a  shade 
247 


B  TIJCltno  flower 

of  embarrassment  crossed  Mary's  face,  "the 
other  is  this  :  that  you  must  never  blame  your- 
self for  this  illness.  It  is  not  you  who  have 
caused  it.  I  know  now  that  it  has  come  from 
a  wholly  different  cause,  from  Eunice's  own 
imprudence.  She  has  told  me  what  makes 
many  things  clear.  It  is  not  right  that  you 
should  bear  too  heavy  a  load,"  and  her  eyes 
darkened  with  indignant  protest  and  a  superb 
sternness  was  on  her  lips,  which  carried  Nor- 
man's thought  back  with  a  flash  to  one  certain 
hour  in  the  parish  house  of  St.  Cuthbert's. 

"You  are  kind,  Mary,"  he  replied  thought- 
fully. "It  is  bitter  to  feel  that  I  have  done 
wrong  to  many  who  have  trusted  me,  but  most 
bitter  to  have  hurt  her.  But  I  know  by  this 
that  you  forgive  me  ?  ' ' 

"Yes." 

"And  you  will  carry  out  a  little  work  I 
want  to  leave  with  you  ?  "  he  asked.  ' '  I  ex- 
pected to  send  you  back  a  note,"  and  he  pro- 
ceeded to  place  the  Ahern  family  in  her  charge. 
When  this  was  arranged,  it  was  time  for  him  to 

go- 

"We  shall  not  hear  from  you?"  Mary 
asked,  as  he  helped  her  into  the  carriage. 

"  No,  I  cannot  look  forward  now  to  writing 
to  any  one.  But  will  you  promise  me  one 
thing?  When  it  is  the  tenth  of  May  again, 
248 


B  lUtnO  Slower 

will  you  send  me  a  letter,  and  tell  me — all — 
you  can — of  her — of  you  all  ?  I  will  wait  till 
then.  I  will  call  for  the  letter  at  this  address, 
wherever  I  maybe  between  now  and  then," 
and  Norman  wrote  on  his  card  a  street  and 
number  in  London  and  placed  it  in  her  hand. 
Mary  bent  her  head  in  agreement ;  he 
closed  the  carriage  door  ;  for  one  instant  their 
eyes  said  good-bye,  and  then  he  was  gone, 
and  Simeon  turned  his  horse's  head  in  the 
direction  of  Willow  Street. 


249 


XXX 

[T  was  midsummer,  a  year,  and  months 
besides,  from  the  time  of  Francis 
Norman's  departure  from  Coalport, 
when  the  first  letter  from  him  was  received  in 
the  house  on  Willow  Street  and  read  by  Mary 
Herendean,  to  whom  it  was  addressed,  as  she 
sat  alone  in  the  quiet  library  with  her  father. 
Eunice  was  no  longer  with  them. 

The  letter  was  dated  in  a  little  village  on  the 
coast  of  North  Devon,  in  England,  and  it  said  : 

More  than  once  I  have  been  almost  ready  to  write  to 
you,  but  one  thing  has  held  me  back — I  had  nothing 
good  to  tell  you.  To-day  it  is  different ;  something  has 
been  given  me  off  here  in  these  wild  moors  which  I  did 
not  find  though  I  searched  for  it  half  the  world  over. 

A  week  ago  I  struck  off  on  foot  and  quite  alone  into 
the  very  heart  of  this  Devonshire  wilderness.  The  day 
was  not  more  beautiful  than  other  days,  I  think  the 
sky  was  rather  frowning  when  I  started.  It  was  noon 
when  I  found  myself,  I  knew  not  where,  but  in  a  valley 
with  great  hills  covered  by  pathless  stretches  of  purple 
moor  rising  about  me  in  every  direction.  No  human 
being  was  in  sight,  nor  trace  nor  sign  of  any.  There 
were  no  trees,  no  varied,  suggestive  landscape,  but  as  I 
climbed  one  hill  and  looked  about  in  every  direction, 
still  there  stretched  the  wild,  unbroken  moor. 
250 


Slower 


How  can  I  tell  you  what  followed  ?  There  was  noth- 
ing to  intervene,  nothing  to  suggest,  no  elements  any- 
where but  the  simplest  —  the  naked  earth,  the  sober 
gray  sky,  and  my  soul,  free  and  unfettered.  It  was 
then,  in  that  moment,  that  looking  up,  and  looking 
within,  and  looking  around  me,  by  an  intuition  mighty, 
convincing,  never  to  be  gainsaid,  I  knew  God,  even  the 
Father.  I  looked  up,  and  it  was  as  if  I  looked  into  the 
face  of  God,  and  as  if  the  earth  beneath  me  were  an 
almighty  arm.  Tears  rained  from  my  eyes.  I  called 
as  if  in  answer  to  an  audible  voice,  "/  believe  in  God 
the  Father  Almighty,  Maker  of  heaven  and  earth." 

Can  you  ever  dream  what  that  stupendous  fact  meant 
to  me,  starved,  homeless,  godless,  through  this  year  of 
wandering,  haunted  in  my  best  estate  by  those  malig- 
nant whispers  of  which  you  know  ? 

I  said  those  words  again  and  again,  and  to  you,  fed 
long  on  "boundless  hopes  "  and  faith  unclouded,  they 
cannot  come  with  the  supreme  joy  which  they  meant  to 
me.  I  believe,  Mary  Herendean  —  thank  God  —  in  God, 
and  not  so  only,  but  in  God  the  Father,  the  same  who 
made  earth  and  heaven  !  love  and  power  absolute. 

Am  I  poor?  Am  I  a  wanderer,  a  man  without  a 
country,  despised,  forgotten  ?  Am  I  the  man  who  lost  a 
believing  heart,  a  woman's  love,  the  confidence  and 
honor  of  his  fellow-men  ?  Am  I  that  wretched,  hapless 
creature  ?  I  know  it  not.  I  feel  it  not.  Though  I  lost 
everything,  something  has  now  been  given  to  me  which 
was  never  mine  before,  /  know  God. 

I  work  in  freedom  wild, 
But  work  as  plays  a  little  child, 
Sure  of  the  Father,  Self,  and  Love  alone. 

For  me  I  ask  no  more  ;  but  I  know  what  you  will 
say  ;  can  I  not  go  on  and  repeat  the  clause  which  fol- 

251 


B  lUinD  jf loxvcr 


lows  this  mighty  assertion  ?  No,  not  yet.  That  may 
follow  for  me,  but  my  time  for  it  has  not  yet  fully  come. 
For  the  present  I  am  satisfied. 

Do  not  think  I  have  not  longed  for  this.  I  sought 
Him  in  the  land  of  his  birth,  in  the  garden  of  his  agony, 
on  the  mount  of  his  death,  but  I  found  him  not.  I 
sought  him  in  the  wonderful  paintings  of  the  south,  the 
kingly  child  in  his  mother's  arms,  but  I  saw  a  human 
child.  With  yearning  unutterable  I  sought  him  in  that 
profoundest  and  most  pathetic  picture  ever  painted  of 
him,  Rembrandt's  "Supper  at  Emmaus."  For  hours 
I  have  stood  before  it.  I  would  have  copied  it,  line 
by  line,  I  loved  it  so,  but  I  dared  not,  because  I  did  not 
believe.  I  felt  that  here  was  the  innermost  conception 
and  showing  forth  of  the  man  Christ  Jesus  who  had 
tasted  death,  and  tasted  it  for  every  man  ;  I  was  moved, 
but  only  as  I  have  been  moved  too  often  by  a  beautiful 
symbol.  I  could  not  accept  it  as  bare  truth. 

I  have  dealt  in  symbols  too  long,  Mary.  My  spir- 
itual sense  is  benumbed  by  them.  The  iteration  of 
them  had  become  terrible.  You  were  too  wise,  I 
remember,  to  wonder  greatly  that  I  lost  the  sight  of 
God  in  the  heavy  folds  of  the  veil  men  have  fashioned  to 
hang  before  his  face.  Why  do  men  ? — why  did  I  ? — 
seek  to  make  a  mystery  of  what  God  would  have  as 
clear  as  his  sunshine,  his  air,  his  crystal  sea  ? 

Never  have  I  reacted  as  now  from  the  modern  sac- 
erdotal scheme  of  Christendom.  If  God  indeed  has 
sent  his  son,  a  sacrificial  altar  and  a  sacrificing,  in- 
termediating priesthood  to-day  are  an  anachronism, 
an  incredible  confusion  of  thought — not  medievalism 
merely,  but  dead  Judaism,  which  men  seek  to  graft  on 
a  living  tree.  And  when  I  consider  the  theory  of  an 
extrinsic,  transmitted  claim  which  I  once  heedlessly 
252 


H  'UatnD  fflower 


accepted,  I  feel  with  Arnold  that  I  can  hardly  treat  it 
gravely  ;  "  there  is  something  so  monstrously  profane," 
as  he  says,  "in  making  our  heavenly  inheritance  like 
an  earthly  estate,  to  which  our  pedigree  is  our  title." 
And  the  appalling  thought  of  all  is  that  underlying  all 
these  modern  ecclesiastical  pretensions  and  rites  is  the 
old,  dark  persistence  of  the  human  soul  toward  idolatry, 
the  magnifying  of  the  symbol,  the  fatal  emphasis  on  the 
external.  Priesthood  bars  the  way  to  the  direct  ap- 
proach to  God.  You  Friends,  at  least,  are  not  afraid 
to  be  left  alone  with  God  and  your  own  souls.  There- 
by you  have  escaped  divers  lusts  which  war  against  us. 

No,  whatever  comes  in  the  future, — and  I  am  not  in 
haste,  believing  that  "my  own  shall  come  to  me," — 
my  plan  of  life  can  never  take  the  old  shape.  That 
sought  distinction  from  my  kind,  separateness,  ex- 
clusiveness.  To-day  my  most  ardent  desire  is  to  be, 
not  the  priest,  but  fully  and  as  far  as  God  shall  give  me 
grace,  to  be  a  man,  a  man  sent  of  God  to  serve  his 
fellows. 

My  passion  is  for  complete  oneness  with  my  fellow- 
men  ;  to  bear  their  burdens  with  them  as  one  of  them, 
not  as  belonging  to  a  different  class.  Distinctions  aild 
barriers  of  dress  and  name  and  speech  I  will  none  of. 
If  we  ritualists  were  wrong,  forgive  me,  you  Friends 
are  wrong  here  also.  There  is  a  higher  simplicity, 
a  more  interior  humility.  You  alone,  of  all  men  and 
women  I  have  known,  possess  it.  The  perfect  mani- 
festation of  it  is  embodied  in  the  conception  of  the 
incarnation,  the  Christ,  coming  not  as  a  priest  nor  as  a 
prince,  but  as  a  Man  of  Sorrows,  the  friend  of  publicans 
and  sinners. 

But  I  fear  to  weary  you  with  the  new  hopes  and 
purposes  which  are  stirring  within  me. 

253 


B  TKHinJ)  JPtower 

Your  letter  reached  me  in  May.  I  cannot  say  that 
Eunice's  secret  marriage  and  hasty  departure  were  an 
absolute  surprise  to  me.  I  confess  I  had  thought  of  this 
marriage  as  being  among  the  possibilities.  I  cannot 
help  hoping  that  your  own  and  your  father's  estimate  of 
the  young  man's  character  may  be  mistaken,  at  least 
that  his  future  may  redeem  his  past.  I  believe  that  he 
was  not  only  Eunice's  first  love,  but  that  in  spite  of  all 
that  has  occurred  she  has  really  never  loved  but  once. 
I  had  hoped  and  fully  believed  otherwise,  but  I  think 
now  that  her  own  heart  was  deceived,  and  that  in 
trying  to  give  this  man  up  she  attempted  what  was 
beyond  her  strength  to  perform. 

In  a  way  you  will  see  that  there  is  reconcilement  to 
me  in  this  belief,  for  it  shows  me  that  I  should  not  have 
made  her  happy  and  there  is  less  for  me  to  regret. 

Let  us  be  of  good  hope.  It  is  love  that  never  faileth 
that  is  greater  than  evil. 


254 


XXXI 

|N  Christmas  Eve  an  express  train  was 
approaching  Coalport.  The  Rev- 
erend James  Hope  was  a  passenger 
on  this  train  and  sat  deeply  absorbed  in  a 
magazine  article  in  his  place  in  the  car  when 
he  became  aware  that  some  one  was  standing 
just  before  him,  regarding  him  closely. 

Looking  up,  he  saw  a  tall  figure  of  rather 
sturdy  and  muscular  build,  with  the  dress  and 
outline  in  general  of  a  traveled  Englishman. 
The  bearded  face  which  bent  over  him  with  a 
frank,  eager  smile,  was  deeply  bronzed  and 
full  of  alert  vigor.  Hope  was  puzzled  and 
scanned  the  stranger's  face  closely  for  a  litfle 
space,  while  neither  spoke.  Then  on  a  sudden 
he  sprang  to  his  feet,  exclaiming  : 

"Father  Norman!  Is  it  possible?"  and 
grasped  the  traveler's  hands  in  unfeigned  sin- 
cerity of  welcome. 

"Not  'Father'  Norman,  if  you  please, 
Hope,"  responded  the  other,  smiling  uncon- 
strainedly  ;  "  I  have  no  claim,  you  know,  now, 
to  that  title,"  and  he  made  room  for  himself 
at  Hope's  side. 

255 


a  TKlinD  fflowet 


The  change  in  Norman's  appearance  might 
well  puzzle  an  old  acquaintance,  for  it  was  not 
merely  the  accident  of  dress  and  beard  by 
which  he  was  transformed  ;  the  essential  change 
was  from  within.  The  melancholy  reserve,  the 
guarded  watchfulness,  the  dreamy  mysticism 
which  had  haunted  this  face  in  other  days,  had 
given  way  to  the  inherent  power  and  freedom 
of  the  man's  nature  which  had  at  last  asserted 
themselves.  It  was  still  a  serious  and  a  gentle 
face,  and  it  bore  deep  lines  of  sorrow  and 
mental  conflict,  but  these  served  only  to  deepen 
the  impression  of  courage  and  strength  and 
purpose  which  none  could  miss  who  met  the 
man. 

"  Of  all  men  I  know,  Hope,"  Norman  re- 
marked, as  he  took  the  seat  by  his  friend's  side, 
' '  you  are  the  one  I  want  most  to  see.  You 
have  been  in  my  mind  continually  of  late  and 
I  have  much  to  talk  over  with  you." 

"  Your  letter  three  months  ago  gave  me 
profoundest  satisfaction,  my  dear  fellow,"  re- 
plied Hope  earnestly. 

"Well,"  returned  Norman,  "all  that  I 
vaguely  suggested  at  that  time  is  crystallizing 
fast  in  these  last  weeks.  Do  you  remember 
what  you  used  to  say  to  me  about  almsgiving 
and  charities  ?  ' ' 

"Vaguely,  I  think." 
256 


fflower 


"Well,  my  conception  of  all  that  kind  of 
thing  has  been  revolutionized.  In  my  old 
system  I  looked  at  it  subjectively  almost  alto- 
gether. It  belonged  to  my  theory  of  a  de- 
voted life  to  give  even  to  the  point  of  sacrifice, 
no  matter  how  deep  ;  but  I  cannot  remember 
that  I  ever  looked  at  the  question  from  the 
other  man's  point  of  view.  I  was  strangely 
ignorant  of  social  conditions.  There  were 
'the  poor'  and  'the  rich,'  and  'the  rich' 
must  help  '  the  poor '  as  a  Christian  grace  and 
duty.  That  was  about  as  far  as  I  had  thought 
it  out." 

' '  You  had  the  disadvantage  of  being  a  rich 
man's  son,"  said  Hope. 

Norman  smiled  and  went  on  speaking  : 

' '  You  know  I  have  spent  the  last  six 
months  simply  in  studying  Barnardo's  work 
in  and  out  of  London,  and  I  tell  you,  Hope, 
I  am  no  longer  a  spectator  in  other  men's 
matters.  I  am  going  to  work  if  God  will 
show  me  anything  I  am  fit  for." 

"You  will  preach,  Norman  ?  " 

"No,"  replied  the  other,  with  a  painful 
shadow  on  his  face,  "I  fear  never  again.  I 
feel  that  I  have  proved  myself  so  blind  a  guide 
in  divine  things  that  I  cannot  again  seek  a 
place  of  spiritual  leadership.  If  others  trusted 
me,  I  still  could  not  trust  myself ;  and,  besides, 
K  257 


21  TimtnD  fflower 

the  few  and  simple  verities  to  which  I  cling 
would  give  me  place  in  no  existing  system,  I 
fear;  and  certainly,  Hope,"  and  Norman 
smiled  again,  "  I  am  not  minded  to  start  a  new 
religious  departure." 

' '  You  will  see  your  way  plainer  by  and  by. ' ' 

"Yes,  I  think  so.  But,  meanwhile,  I  want 
you  to  know  that  you  can  count  upon  me  in 
your  work  at  the  settlement,  if  you  can  use  a 
discredited  man  such  as  I  fear  I  still  am  in 
Coalport.  I  have  come  home  as  men  did  in 
war  time — simply  to  bear  arms.  The  social 
struggle  which  is  upon  the  country  seems  to 
me  to  demand  imperatively  that  every  loyal 
man  shall  do  his  duty.  We  shall  have  to  fight 
in  clouds  of  dust  and  smoke,  too  thick,  I  sup- 
pose, to  see  through,  for  a  long  time  to  come, 
but  not  too  thick  to  fight  in." 

Hope  looked  with  intense  interest  into  Nor- 
man's kindling  face. 

"  One  thing  at  least  is  clear  to  me,"  he  con- 
tinued ;  ' '  that  is,  that  no  man  has  a  right 
to  lead  the  life  of  a  solitary  recluse,  to  devote 
himself  to  his  own  development  even  in  spirit- 
ual things,  after  he  is  sufficiently  equipped  for 
duty,  when  other  men  are  going  down  all 
around  him  in  the  struggle  with  bare  material 
poverty  and  physical  distress.  I  am  a  Socialist, 
at  least  as  far  as  concerns  a  man's  use  of  his 
258 


a  TKUnD  Slower 

mental  and  moral  forces,  and  it  may  be  a  good 
deal  farther. 

"That  old  house  of  my  father's  in  Minster 
Street,  Hope,  I  made  it  a  kind  of  shell  for  my 
one  poor  soul  to  grow  in,  and  it  grew  small,  I 
am  afraid,  all  the  time — turned  it  into  a  kind 
of  cloister,  you  know,  fruitless  and  barren  of 
results.  I  propose  now  to  redeem  it  to  some 
practical  use.  I  think  it  has  a  good  many 
possibilities.  It  is  full  of  pictures,  very  good 
ones  too  ;  my  father  was  a  collector,  and  an 
excellent  judge.  The  library  is  very  fair  too. ' ' 

Hope's  eyes  brightened  at  the  significance 
of  this  suggestion. 

"What  do  you  think?  Can  we  turn  it  to 
account  ?  It  is  big  enough,  you  know,  for  al- 
most anything." 

Hope  nodded  emphatically. 

"  I  could  put  it  to  a  dozen  uses  to-morrow, 
if  I  had  the  chance,"  he  replied. 

"Good  !  You  see,  then,  there  is  much  to 
discuss,  and  I  shall  see  you  shortly  ;  but  here 
we  are,  slowing  into  the  station  already,"  and 
Norman,  with  a  hurried  hand-clasp,  left  his 
friend  and  made  ready  to  leave  the  train. 

A  few  minutes  later  Norman  started  off 
alone,  as  he  wished  to  be,  over  the  crisp,  new- 
fallen  snow  at  a  rapid  gait.  He  had  sent  his 
luggage  to  a  hotel,  but  he  had  no  mind  for  a 
259 


fflower 


hotel  himself  just  yet  ;  he  was  eager  for  a 
glimpse  of  the  old  familiar  streets,  and  his 
heart  within  him  was  deeply  stirred. 

But  the  streets  were  gay  to-night  with 
Christmas  greens  and  Christmas  cheer  and 
Christmas  shoppers,  and  an  infectious  gayety 
seemed  to  pervade  the  air. 

"Hurrah  for  me!"  muttered  Norman, 
under  his  breath.  "  On  the  spot  at  last,  after 
nearly  two  years,  and  not  a  whimper  of  longing 
for  the  '  dear  old  days  '  yet.  I  shall  do  finely 
at  this  rate.  I  believe  I  even  dare  to  walk 
down  Minster  Street,"  and  he  turned  in  that 
direction  and  soon  came  in  sight  of  the  sculp- 
tured front  of  St.  Cuthbert's.  "The  good 
bishop  will  have  a  clean  mantle  of  snow  to- 
night to  cover  the  blackness  of  his  robes,"  he 
thought;  "but  what  is  that  canopy  from  the 
door  to  the  street?  Doubtless  a  wedding 
later,"  and  Norman  hastened  on  to  the  spot. 

A  broad  carpet  covered  the  church  steps 
and  pavement,  but  the  doors  were  all  locked. 
Turning,  he  stood  irresolute  for  a  moment  on 
the  steps,  when  suddenly  the  bells  high  above 
his  head  began  chiming  loud  and  lustily  the 
glad  old  Christmas  hymn  : 

With  hearts  truly  grateful, 
Come,  all  ye  faithful, 
To  Jesus,  to  Jesus,  in  Bethlehem  ! 
260 


H  Wtnfc  fflower 

It  was  a  melody  which  Norman  could  never 
hear  without  an  inner  excitement,  and  it 
thrilled  him  now  as  no  other  sound  on  earth 
could  have  done. 

In  a  deep  voice,  low  and  muffled,  he  struck 
into  the  second  stave,  and  sang  with  the 
chimes  : 

See  Christ  our  Saviour, 
Heaven's  greatest  favor ; 
Let  us  hasten  to  adore  him, 
Let  us  hasten  to  adore  him, 
Our  God  and  King  ! 

The  door  behind  him  was  opened  from 
within,  the  old  sexton,  whom  he  remembered 
perfectly,  appeared,  anxiously  sweeping  a  few 
snowflakes  from  the  steps. 

Norman  turned  slightly  and  spoke  to  the 
old  man,  who  plainly  did  not  recognize  him 
and  who  vouchsafed  the  information  that  there 
was  going  to  be  a  great  wedding  in  the  church 
at  eight  o'clock. 

"  I  should  like  to  go  in  a  moment  and  see 
the  church,"  Norman  remarked.  "I  used  to 
know  it  pretty  well. ' ' 

"No,  sir,  very  sorry,  sir,  but  no  strangers 
will  be  admitted  to-night — only  them  having 
cards.  You  haven't  got  a  card,  have  you?" 

"Oh,  no  ;  I  do  not  even  know  who  is  to  be 

married." 

261 


H  TUUinO  fflowet 


' '  Why  you  must  be  a  stranger  in  Coalport 
then,  sure  enough.  There  hasn't  much  else 
been  talked  about  here  lately.  It's  Mr.  Ho- 
ratio Barringer's  daughter,  the  younger  one, 
and  she's  to  marry  young  Ripley.  Heard  of 
the  parties,  perhaps?" 

Yes,  Norman  had  heard  of  the  parties,  in 
fact  had  known  them  well,  long  ago. 

The  old  sexton  relented  a  little.  Some 
touch  of  distinction  in  Norman's  manner  of 
speech,  some  latent  association  recalled  uncon- 
sciously by  his  voice,  affected  him. 

"Well,  mebbe  as  you  know  the  parties,  or 
used  to,  and  nobody  being  about,  it  won't  do 
any  harm  if  I  let  you  step  into  the  church  just 
a  minute." 

Accordingly,  an  instant  later  Norman  found 
himself  standing  with  head  uncovered  and 
humbly  bent,  in  the  broad  aisle  of  St.  Cuth- 
bert's,  beside  the  sexton,  who  did  not  know 
him. 

The  chancel  was  full  of  tall  white  lilies  and 
glossy-leaved  palms,  mingled  with  the  Christ- 
mas greens  which  hung  heavily  everywhere. 

"It'll  be  a  great  wedding,  I  can  tell  you 
that,"  whispered  the  old  man  beside  him, 
breaking  into  Norman's  brooding  reverie. 
"The  bishop  himself  has  come  to  perform  the 
ceremony,  and  the  choir  has  been  practising 
262 


B  TUfltnD  fflower 

them  special  pieces,  '  The  Voice  that  breathed 
o'er  Eden,'  and  such  like,  for  a  month  back." 

"  Have  there  been  many  changes  for  a  year 
or  two  in  the  choir  ? ' '  asked  Norman,  turning 
to  leave  the  church. 

"Oh,  a  pretty  good  number.  But  they've 
lost  one  of  their  best  for  to-morrow  ;  the  choir- 
master was  nearly  wild  when  he  heard  it. ' ' 

"Who  was  that?" 

"A  little  fellow  the  man  who  used  to  be 
here  before  this  one — Father  Norman,  I  mean 
— picked  up,  somehow  or  another.  Joey 
Ahern  his  name  is.  He's  got  a  rare  voice,  I 
can  tell  you,  and  him  such  a  little  chap  too." 

"What  has  happened  to  him?"  asked  Nor- 
man quickly.  They  had  reached  the  vestibule 
now. 

"Got  hurt  at  the  works  yesterday,  pretty 
well  crushed,  I  guess, ' '  said  the  sexton  ;  ' '  they 
don't  know  as  he'll  pull  through.  Shouldn't 
wonder  if  he  didn't  live  the  night  out." 


263 


XXXII 

IORMAN  had  not  waited  for  the  last 
words,  but  was  down  the  steps  and 
down  the  street  leaving  the  old  man 
to  wonder  who  he  could  have  been.  In  the 
square  he  found  a  cab  and  was  driven  rapidly 
through  the  lower  town  to  "the  settlement," 
where,  in  the  neighborhood  of  the  mines  and 
smelting  works  the  families  of  the  miners  were 
mainly  congregated.  On  they  drove,  with  coal- 
black  furnaces  belching  out  their  flames  and 
smoke  on  every  hand,  past  the  squalid,  mis- 
erable dwellings  with  the  clang  of  the  iron 
works  rilling  the  air  with  discordant  sound. 

Norman  dismissed  the  cab  at  the  head  of 
one  well-remembered  alley,  and  plunged  down 
into  the  darkness  alone.  Lights  in  these  re- 
gions were  at  long  intervals,  and  it  was  with 
difficulty  he  could  keep  his  footing  on  the  slip- 
pery walk,  or  discern  one  house  from  another. 
Deep  down  the  lane,  before  a  tall,  narrow  ten- 
ement, was  the  outline,  against  the  blackened 
snow,  of  a  carriage  standing.  When  he  reached 
it  Norman  was  sure  of  the  house  and  went  in, 
and  up  two  flights  of  stairs. 
264 


H  THUmO  jflower 


The  door  into  the  front  room  where  he  had 
often  visited  Joey  stood  open  ;  it  was  dark  in- 
side and  there  seemed  a  hush  upon  the  place 
which  he  hesitated  to  break  by  knocking. 

He  listened  a  moment.  A  woman's  voice 
was  praying.  He  waited  no  longer,  but  push- 
ing the  door  open  without  noise,  he  stepped 
softly  into  the  dark  and  empty  room.  The 
door  was  open  into  a  room  beyond,  which  was 
lighted.  As  his  eyes  became  accustomed  to 
the  light  he  could  see  clearly  several  figures 
about  a  bed.  A  tall  old  man  stood  erect  in 
the  full  light  of  the  oil  lamp,  his  head  bent,  his 
profile  outlined  against  the  wall  beyond,  a 
strangely  majestic  figure  in  that  low  place. 
Norman  knew  it  well.  The  figure  of  a  black- 
robed  sister  could  also  be  seen  beyond  the  bed 
and  two  other  women  were  kneeling  by  its 
side.  One  was  Joey's  mother  ;  one  was  pray- 
ing. It  was  Mary  Herendean.  Her  voice 
rose  sweet  and  clear  and  steady  above  the 
sobbing  of  the  poor  mother,  witli  the  slight 
rhythmical  swing  of  her  Quaker  inheritance 
and  the  powerful  "gift  in  prayer"  occasionally 
possessed  by  women  of  her  sect. 

"Our  Lord  Christ,"   she  prayed,  "  thou  who  didst 

become  a  child,  thou  who  didst  know  pain  and  sorrow 

and  even  death,  for  us  in  our  sore  need,  come  to  us  now 

to-night  in  this  place.     Our  Saviour,  we  could  not  know 

265 


H  TJCUnD  fflower 

the  Father's  love  except  he  had  sent  thee  to  die  for  us, 
but  we  know  it  and  we  beg  thee,  because  thou  dost 
love  us,  to  help  us  now.  Comfort  this  mother  and 
bless  our  dear  boy  and  pity  his  pain.  Thou  dids: 
touch  our  human  frames  when  thou  wast  here  on  earth 
and  healed  them  of  all  their  suffering ;  O  Saviour,  lay 
thy  loving  hand  on  this  poor  child  even  now.  We  love 
thee,  we  trust  thee.  Come  thou  to  us,  Lord.  Amen." 

Every  one  in  the  room  joined  in  the  '  'amen, ' ' 
and  the  man  who  stood  with  bowed  head  in 
the  doorway  added  a  deep  voice  to  the  rest. 
Then,  as  the  others  turning  saw  and  did  not 
speak  for  wonder  and  amazement,  he  stepped 
through  the  door  and  stood  by  the  bedside. 
Joey  lay  with  eyes  partially  closed,  his  face 
drawn  with  pain,  but  hardly  conscious.  Fran- 
cis Norman  bent  and  took  into  his  own  the 
limp,  battered  little  hand  which  lay  upon  the 
coverlet.  For  an  instant  his  head  was  bowed 
and  his  broad  chest  heaved  with  strong  emo- 
tion. Then  he  lifted  his  head,  and  looking 
up,  still  holding  Joey's  hand  in  his,  he  spoke 
the  words  distinctly,  as  if  to  rouse  the  child  by 
the  power  of  association  : 

"/  believe  in  God  the  Father  Almighty, 
Maker  of  heaven  and  earth,  and  in  Jesus  Christ, 
his  Son,  our  Lord. ' ' 

There  was  no  mistaking  who  he  was  when 
they  thus  heard  his  voice. 
266 


a  TldinO  fflower 

"Yes,  sir,  Father  Norman,"  cried  Joey's 
mother  through  her  tears;  "it  was  yersilf 
taught  me  poor  boy  the  creed,  and  he  niver 
forgot  it.  He  could  say  it  now,  poor  lad,  if 
he  had  but  got  his  sinses  wid  the  pain." 

"  Let  us  go  on  together,"  said  Francis  Nor- 
man. There  was  a  quiet  command  in  his 
manner  which  awed  them  all  and  restrained 
even  their  surprise  at  his  appearing  thus  among 
them.  The  voluble,  tearful  Irish  Romanist, 
crossing  herself  devoutly,  the  grave  and  silent 
Friend  and  his  fair  daughter,  the  black-robed 
churchwoman,  and  the  strong  man  who  had 
come  but  now  from  the  regions  of  blank  unbe- 
lief, standing  thus  around  the  poor  little  bed, 
repeated  reverently  and  unitedly  the  solemn 
utterances  of  the  Apostles'  Creed.  And  as  it 
went  on  Joey's  face  relaxed  its  tension,  he 
opened  his  eyes  and  fixed  them  on  Norman, 
and  with  the  words  ' '  the  forgiveness  of  sins, ' ' 
a  weak  little  voice  was  added  to  the  rest,  going 
on  through  "  the  resurrection  of  the  body  and 
the  life  everlasting'"  to  the  amen. 

Then  two  arms  were  stretched  out,  and, 
Norman  kneeling  by  the  bed,  Joey's  hands 
were  clasped  around  his  neck  and  he  mur- 
mured faintly  : 

"  Yer  come  back  jest  in  time." 

"Yes,  Joey,"  Norman  whispered,  while  hot 
267 


flower 


tears  blinded  his  eyes,  "  I  am  through  wan- 
dering now.  I  have  come  back  to  take  care 
of  you  and  help  you  to  get  well.  You  know  I 
am  going  to  stay  with  you  all  night.  In  the 
morning  you  will  be  much  better,"  and  hold- 
ing up  his  hand,  he  motioned  that  they  all 
should  leave  the  room.  The  little  arms  sank 
back  upon  the  bed.  With  a  child's  movement 
of  the  head  when  it  is  ready  for  sleep  Joey 
turned  on  the  pillow  and  closed  his  eyes. 

Norman  joined  Mary  Herendean  for  a  mo- 
ment in  the  dark  outer  room  and  took  her 
hand. 

"  The  Christ  is  born,"  he  said  low,  but 
with  profound  meaning.  "To-night  for  the 
first  time  I  could  pronounce  the  creed.  It  is 
you  who  have  led  me  to  his  feet  —  in  your 
prayer.  '  ' 

That  was  all.  Even  with  the  words  Norman 
had  returned  to  his  post  at  Joey's  bedside  and 
Mary  went  on  down  the  dark,  narrow  stairs  with 
her  father,  her  heart  singing  with  men  and 
angels  the  Christmas  hymn  which  the  church 
bells  still  rang  joyously  out  into  the  night  : 

Let  us  hasten  to  adore  him, 
Let  us  hasten  to  adore  him, 
Our  God  and  King  ! 


268 


XXXIII 

LL  night  as  Francis  Norman  watched 
beside  Joey's  bed,  while  the  poor 
mother,  worn  out,  slept,  and  the 
child  slept  too,  a  presence  well-nigh  angelic 
to  his  thought  seemed  to  linger  in  the  room 
beside  him,  and  he  still  saw  Mary  Herendean 
praying  by  that  bedside,  with  her  pure  face 
and  voice — a  saint,  without  distinction  of  name 
or  garb,  marked  but  by  the  consecration  of  her 
noble  womanhood,  bearing  the  cross  on  her 
heart,  not  on  her  garment,  pledged  to  the 
service  of  all  who  suffered  or  were  in  need. 

It  was  a  night  of  wonder  and  glory  to  Fran- 
cis Norman.  The  Christ  whom  he  had  sought 
had  suddenly  come  to  him  in  fullness  and  in 
truth.  But  with  the  revelation  of  Love  incar- 
nate and  divine  had  come  another  revelation 
of  high  and  thrilling  power.  With  awe  and 
delight  his  heart  yielded  to  the  mastery  of 
another  love,  potent,  exalted,  hardly  less  than 
divine,  a  love  of  which  he  could  say,  "  Ich 
lie  be  dich  in  Go  ft  und  Gott  in  dir. ' ' 

He  wondered,  looking  back  over  the  past, 
how  to  name  his  love  for  Eunice  ;  it  had  been 
269 


B  Wins  fflower 

a  passion  of  tenderness  and  ardent  idealizing 
of  a  nature  weak  and  shallow.  Such  a  love 
could  not  in  its  very  nature  exalt  or  ennoble  a 
man,  could  not  find  its  place  in  his  religious 
life.  There  seemed  a  singular  significance 
almost  inevitable  in  the  issue,  that  his  ideal 
of  sainthood  broke  down  when  he  yielded 
himself  to  the  love  of  a  girl  like  Eunice.  He 
had  not  dreamed  it  was  so  at  the  time,  but  he 
could  understand  now.  He  had  dwelt  alto- 
gether then,  it  seemed,  in  a  world  of  sem- 
blances and  symbols  ;  now  he  had  awakened 
to  the  divine  realities,  profoundly  greater,  as 
they  were  profoundly  simpler,  than  his  dreams. 

With  the  morning  Joey  opened  his  eyes  ; 
his  face  was  clear  and  his  look  relieved. 

"Guess  yer  have  made  me  better,  Father 
Norman,"  he  said  in  his  broken  little  voice  ; 
"you  and  Miss  Mary.  I  tell  yer  she's  the 
saint  on  earth  ! ' ' 

"I  believe  she  is,  Joey." 

"She's  took  awful  good  care  of  me  mother 
and  me  iver  sinst  yer  went  away.  If  I  was  you 
I'd  be  fer  gittin'  married  to  her,"  and  Joey 
turned  up  his  eyes  in  solemn  emphasis  of  his 
sincerity. 

"I'll  do  my  best,  Joey,"  replied  Norman 
with  his  grave  smile,  "but  you  must  give  me 
time,  you  know." 

270 


TJClino  flower 


"  That's  so  too,"  murmured  Joey.  "What 
are  yer  goin'  ter  be  now,  Father  Norman  ?  I 
s'pose  yer  can't  be  boss  at  St.  Cuthbert's  enny 
more,  '  cause  ther'  s  another  man  got  yer  place. ' ' 

Norman  smiled. 

"No,  I  don't  exactly  want  to  be  a  'boss' 
anywhere,  Joey,  but  a  servant.  I  shall  try 
to  help  Mr.  Hope  at  the  settlement,  and  per- 
haps make  a  place  for  little  fellows  like  you 
who  get  hurt  at  the  mines  to  stay  in  and  get 
well,  if  it  please  God  to  let  me.  Is  that  all 
right  ?  I  want  to  do  Christ' s  work,  you  know. ' ' 

"Yes,  only  yer  ain't  goin'  away  from  Coal- 
port  ag'in — sure?'1  and  Joey's  anxiety  was 
pitiful  to  see. 

"No,  Joey,  I  shall  stay  in  Coalport  to  do 
my  work.  But  your  mother  is  coming  now, 
and  I  will  go  and  leave  you  for  a  while.  You 
see,  I  really  haven't  exactly  landed  yet,"  and 
with  a  look  of  strong  encouragement  and  a 
hand  gentle  as  a  woman's  laid  on  the  boy's 
forehead,  Francis  Norman  left  the  place. 

It  was  only  an  hour  later  that  he  stood  upon 
the  porch  of  Moses  Herendean's  home. 
Simeon,  the  elderly  Friend,  was  cleaning  the 
snow  from  the  path,  and  the  house  door  stood 
open.  Norman  waited  a  moment  for  the  ap- 
pearance of  the  maid,  whose  occupation  was 
indicated  by  a  broom  and  duster.  She  came 
271 


B  TKUnD  flower 


presently,  a  mat  in  her  hands  to  shake,  and 
stared  at  Norman  in  unfeigned  surprise. 
Simeon  was  still  halting  between  two  opinions 
as  to  his  identity.  It  was  still  not  eight  o'clock. 

"Has  Miss  Herendean  come  downstairs 
yet?"  Norman  asked  composedly,  stepping 
inside,  not  caring  to  wait  for  Simeon  to  reach 
a  conclusion. 

The  maid  answered  no,  but  it  was  about 
time  for  her  now,  if  he  would  come  in.  Bid- 
ding her  make  no  announcement  of  his  pres- 
ence, Norman  went  into  the  hall,  laid  aside 
his  coat  and  hat  in  the  familiar  place  and 
walked  up  and  down  the  hall  below  the  old 
portraits  of  William  Penn  and  George  Fox, 
until  at  last,  the  maid  withdrawn  and  the  place 
quite  still,  he  heard  a  step  on  the  landing 
above  and  the  sweep  of  a  woman's  dress. 

Norman  stood  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs  as 
Mary  came  down.  Her  surprise  showed  in 
the  brilliant  color  which  rose  to  her  cheeks, 
but  not  in  words.  She  had  been  awake  all 
night  for  joy  and  for  love  of  him,  but  her  eyes 
were  as  clear  as  a  child's. 

"  I  was  a  bold  man  to  steal  into  your  house 
like  this,"  he  said  as  he  took  her  hand. 
"Merry  Christmas  !  Has  any  one  said  it  to 
you  before  ?  I  want  to  be  the  first  to  give  you 
the  greeting  to-day,"  and  his  eyes  rested  full 


H  Wind  fflower 

upon  hers  with  such  a  splendor  of  love,  the 
power  and  the  passion  of  it,  and  its  great  be- 
stowing, that  her  own  eyes  fell  before  them. 

They  passed  together  into  the  library. 

"Yes,  you  are  the  first,"  she  murmured, 
and  asked  a  question  about  Joey,  putting  off, 
as  women  will,  the  crisis  they  most  yearn  for 
and  most  dread. 

"Joey  is  better,  and  bound  to  get  well," 
Norman  answered  with  a  ring  of  hope  and 
confidence  in  his  voice  which  warmed  her 
heart ;  ' '  Joey  has  issued  his  orders  to  me  for 
the  day,  and  I  am  here  in  obedience  to  them. 
I  shall  tell  you  later  what  they  are. ' ' 

"You  will  stay  to  see  my  father  and  take 
breakfast  with  us  ? "  Mary  asked,  turning  a 
little  from  his  look  which  made  her  heart  beat 
hard. 

"That  depends.  You  remind  me  that  I 
must  make  haste.  You  know  what  I  have 
come  for,  Mary,  the  one,  only  thing  which 
could  bring  me  here,  where  I  had  thought 
never  to  come  again.  You  know  that  I  love 
you,  not  because  you  are  a  saint  and  an  angel, 
which  may  very  well  be,  but  because  you  are  a 
woman,  the  sweetest  and  bravest  and  truest 
woman  in  the  world,  and  the  one  only  who  will 
ever  be  my  wife." 

For  a  little  space,  the  color  all  gone  from  her 
s  273 


a  TRttinO  fflowet 

face,  Mary  stood,  her  eyes  drooping,  her  hands 
clasped  behind  her. 

"How  can  it  be,"  she  faltered,  "if  you 
truly  loved — her?" 

"Mary,"  Francis  Norman  said,  with  some- 
thing imperious  in  his  tone,  "you  know  what 
I  loved  in  her — something  that  did  not  exist. 
Am  I  to  be  held  true  to  a  semblance,  a 
dream  ? ' ' 

"No,  my  love,  you  are  not!"  she  cried, 
with  sudden,  great  surrender;  "you  are  to  be 
held  true  to  me  and  to  me  only  as  long  as  we 
live,"  and  she  gave  herself  to  his  arms  and  to 
his  kiss. 

Afterward  it  befell  that  Mary  would  wear 
no  engagement  ring ;  and  holding  her  firm, 
shapely  hand  later  on  that  same  Christmas 
Day,  Norman  asked  concerning  a  tiny  scar, 
crimson  and  cruciform,  which  he  found  on  its 
surface. 

"That  is  my  sign  of  betrothal,"  she  an- 
swered, the  smile  in  her  eyes  mingled  with 
tears,  "that  is  the  signet  of  our  love  set  as  long 
as  I  live  on  my  hand. ' ' 

But  whence  the  scar  and  how  it  won  that 
significance,  she  did  not  tell  him  then  nor  ever 
would. 


274 


XXXIV 

|T  was  late  in  March.  Francis  Norman 
had  run  down  just  before  noon  one 
day  to  the  Herendeans'  to  seek 
Mary' s  advice  about  certain  details  of  his  plans 
for  "Norman  House. "  For  the  Minster  Street 
mansion,  to  be  thus  styled  in  his  father's  mem- 
ory, was  being  refitted  and  fashioned  for  a  home 
for  the  crippled  and  invalid  children  of  miners. 
The  upper  stories  would  suffice  at  present  for 
this  purpose.  The  great  rooms  below  were  to 
retain  their  stately  elegance  and  artistic  ap- 
pointments, and  were  to  serve  the  purpose  of 
a  library,  reading  room,  and  picture  gallery  for 
the  clientele  of  James  Hope's  settlement,  and 
for  all  who  could  be  reached  through  them. 

A  new  trade-school  at  the  settlement  was 
also  full  of  absorbing  interest  to  Norman,  who 
had  found  work  developing  rapidly  under  his 
hands  since  his  return.  It  was  new  work  to 
him,  but  all  the  native  manhood  and  force  of 
his  character  rose  to  its  demands  ;  a  hand  to 
hand  work  among  men  and  women  and  little 
children  crushed  by  hard  conditions ;  a  throw- 
ing of  himself,  heart  and  soul  and  energy,  not 
275 


B  THHtn&  Slower 

as  a  priest,  but  as  a  Christian  man,  into  the 
struggles  of  the  very  poor  and  very  hopeless. 
There  was,  moreover,  in  him  an  effective  and 
availing  power  of  sympathy  and  comprehension 
which  enabled  him  to  fulfill  the  Christ-ideal  as 
he  never  had  done  when  as  rector  of  St.  Cuth- 
bert's  he  had  sought  to  carry  out  a  dream  of 
medieval  sainthood. 

"  He  knows  our  sorrows,"  men  and  women 
said  ;  "he  must  have  seen  trouble  himself." 

Into  every  new  purpose  of  love  and  benefi- 
cence, Mary  Herendean  entered  with  Norman, 
not  only  with  full  heart,  but  with  wise  and  dis- 
cerning judgment. 

Hurrying  into  the  hall  now,  without  the 
ceremony  of  ringing  the  bell,  he  was  about  to 
enter  the  library  with  a  familiar  word  of  greet- 
ing, when  he  was  checked  by  the  sight  of 
Mary,  who  was  standing  by  the  library  table 
alone,  with  a  pale,  stricken  face  which  told  of 
some  sudden  shock  of  sorrow. 

"Dearest,"  he  cried,  coming  to  her  side, 
' '  what  is  it  ?  your  father  ?  ' ' 

"  No,"  she  said,  and  held  out  to  him  a  tel- 
egram. It  was  dated  in  a  mountain  town  of 
North  Carolina,  a  health  resort,  where  Nor- 
man knew  Ralph  Kidder  had  gone  with  the 
intention  of  practising  medicine  ;  the  words 

were  these  : 

276 


B  WtnO  fflowet 

Your  sister  is  alone  and  very  ill.  Come  at  once  or 
you  will  be  too  late.  EDWARD  SLATER,  M.  D. 

Hastily  they  discussed  together  the  plan  for 
Mary's  immediate  journey.  She  had  already 
decided  to  leave  by  an  evening  train  that  night, 
the  details  were  yet  undecided.  Her  father 
knew  and  had  gone  to  his  own  room  to  be 
alone  with  his  grief. 

"  It  will  be  a  weary  journey,"  said  Norman 
as  he  studied  a  time-table  which  Mary  had 
placed  in  his  hand  ;  ' '  there  are  many  changes 
and  poor  connections.  You  cannot  get  to 
Rockfall  until  the  day  after  to-morrow,  Mary." 

"  Oh,  is  it  so  long?  How  can  I  go  through 
the  long  uncertainty?  How  can  I  keep  my 
darling  girl  waiting  alone  so  long  ?  ' '  and  Mary' s 
tears  flowed  fast  as  she  thought  of  Eunice's  ex- 
tremity. 

"  You  cannot  endure  it  alone,  Mary,"  Fran- 
cis Norman  said  earnestly  ;  "  you  must  let  me 
go  with  you.  You  will  need  me  for  the  jour- 
ney, and  afterward.  I  shall  go,  dear." 

' '  Oh,  that  would  be  the  only  comfort  pos- 
sible now,"  exclaimed  Mary  looking  at  him 
through  her  tears  ;  "but  can  you  ?  Is  it  quite 
right  for  us?  You  know  my  meaning." 

' '  It  will  be  quite  right  for  you  to  travel  with 
your  husband,"  was  the  steady  answer,  and 
277 


H  TOlina  jflowet 

Norman's  eyes  looked  into  Mary's  with  fathom- 
less love.  "I  think  it  would  be  better,  easier, 
for  us  to  be  married  first.  You  must  agree 
with  me." 

There  had  been  no  thought  or  word  hith- 
erto that  their  marriage  would  take  place  until 
the  autumn.  Mary  Herendean  looked  with 
startled  wonder  into  her  lover's  face,  but  after 
a  moment's  reflection,  with  a  sorrowful  smile 
she  placed  her  hand  in  his  and  said  very 
quietly  : 

"Yes,  dear,  I  see  it  is  the  right  way,  the 
best." 

"  And  you  will  be  ready ? ' ' 

"At  four  o'clock." 

' '  That  will  do  very  well.  The  train  leaves 
at  six. ' ' 

And  so  it  came  about  that  at  four  o'clock 
that  day,  in  the  presence  of  Moses  Herendean 
and  the  servants  of  the  house  and  his  own 
wife,  whom  he  had  brought  at  Norman's  re- 
quest, James  Hope  united  in  marriage  these 
two,  whose  sorrow  was  thus  made  to  consecrate 
their  joy. 

When  on  the  third  day  they  reached  Rock- 
fall  in  a  great  storm  of  wind  and  rain,  Mary 
Norman  found  that  Eunice's  peril  was  even 
more  imminent  than  she  had  feared. 

The  nurse  and  the  doctor  made  the  way 
278 


H  "WUino  fflower 

ready  for  her,  led  her  to  the  room,  and  when 
she  had  entered  closed  the  door.  White  and 
spent  Eunice  lay  on  the  pillows,  the  great 
change  plainly  shadowed  in  her  face.  Her 
joy  in  seeing  Mary  was  heartrending.  Of 
Francis  Norman's  presence  she  never  knew. 

When  they  could  talk  a  little  Eunice  said  in 
her  faint,  fluttering  whisper,  for  her  breath 
failed  fast  : 

"That  picture,  Mary,  on  the  chimney, 
won't  thee  burn  it  in  the  fire — quick?  I  did 
not  dare  to  ask  the  nurse,  and  I  cannot  see  it 
there  any  longer. ' ' 

Mary  rose  and  crossed  the  room  quickly. 
On  the  bare  pine  mantelpiece — for  the  house 
was  an  ill-finished,  crudely  built,  temporary 
structure — stood  in  a  gilt  frame  a  small  picture 
of  an  actress,  a  woman  in  man's  stage  attire, 
with  a  voluptuous  figure  and  a  smile  of  chal- 
lenge on  the  bold,  handsome  face.  Without 
a  word  Mary  threw  it  into  the  fire  and  it  was 
burned. 

' '  A  company  of  people  like  that  has  been 
here  until  two  weeks  ago,"  Eunice  whispered. 
' '  Ralph  liked  it  and  he  was  always  with  them. 
That  woman  he  used  to  talk  about  continually. 
He  said  she  had  temperament,  vetve,  all  that 
I  lacked  Then  that  night,  the  last,  thee  knows, 
before  they  left,  there  was  a  great  supper  down- 
279 


B  TJClinO  fflower 

stairs  and  Ralph  made  me  go.  Mary,  I  could 
not  stay  there.  I  did  not  know  about  such 
things  before.  I  was  selfish  and  dreadful,  but 
I  was  an  innocent  girl,  Mary,  wasn'  t  I  ?  " 

' '  Yes,  darling  ;  yes,  Una,  yes. ' ' 

"So  I  came  out  and  up  here.  Ralph  fol- 
lowed me  with  this  picture  in  his  hand.  She 
had  given  it  to  him  and  he  put  it  there  and  said 
'  there  it  should  stay  ! '  How  angry  he  was  ! ' ' 

"Forget  it,  dearest.     Where  is  he  now?" 

"  I  do  not  know  and  I  do  not  want  thee  to 
try  to  send  him  any  word.  He  broke  my 
heart,  Mary,  that  night.  And  when  he  had 
said  all  he  went  away — when  the  others  did. 
His  anger  was  not  hot  and  fiery,  but  cold  as 
death,  Mary — cold  as  death.  It  chilled  me 
here,"  and  Eunice  put  her  thin  hand  over  her 
heart,  "and  all  the  days  since  I  could  never, 
never  get  warm  again.  Is  it  always  so,  I  won- 
der ?  Is  that  death  ?  ' ' 

The  great  dark  eyes,  more  beautiful  than 
ever,  looked  up  with  piteous  appeal  once  more 
into  Mary's  face,  and  Mary,  for  all  her  strong 
control,  fell  on  her  knees  in  an  agony  of  sob- 
bing and  tears  and  prayer  beside  the  bed. 

They  talked  no  more  that  night.     The  doc- 
tor forbade  it.      Mary  sat  in  perfect  stillness 
by  the  bed  through  the  long  hours,  the  nurse 
and  Francis  Norman  within  call. 
280 


TlEltno  Slower 


It  was  dawn  when  Eunice  opened  her  eyes 
after  an  hour  of  restless  slumber  and  said  so 
low  that  Mary  could  scarcely  catch  the  words  : 

"I  dreamed  that  I  was  in  Friends'  meeting 
again — it  was,  oh  so  still — and  I  thought  maybe 
it  was  heaven." 

Then  after  a  pause  :  "  I  have  done  so  many 
wrong  things,  I  know  now.  Once  thee  said  I 
was  pure  in  heart,  sister." 

"Yes,  Una." 

' '  Can  our  Saviour,  whom  I  trust,  make  that 
true  now,  since  I  am  so  very  sorry?  " 

"  Yes,  precious  child  ;  oh,  my  darling,  yes." 

"Mary,"  the  solemn  eyes  were  dark  with 
death,  "shall  I  see  God  ?  " 

"Yes,  my  blessed  child  shall  see  God. 
Blessed  are  the  pure  in  heart,  for  they  shall 
see  God." 

"And  father?" 

' '  Loves — forgives — blesses. ' ' 

Eunice  smiled,  put  her  hand  in  Mary's,  and 
so  quietly  breathed  away  her  life. 

Early  in  the  morning  Francis  Norman  came 
into  the  room  with  a  handful  of  white  wind- 
flowers  which  he  had  searched  for  and  gath- 
ered in  all  the  storm  on  the  mountain  side,  the 
thought  in  his  heart,  "Thou  shalt  not  lack  the 
flower  that's  like  thy  face."  He  stood  and 
looked  long  at  Eunice — the  white  brow  under 
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S  TJdino  fflowet 

the  soft  cloud  of  dark  hair  ;  the  sweet,  cold 
face.  He  laid  the  flowers  upon  her  breast, 
between  the  small  hands,  and  so,  with  starting 
tears  and  an  anguish  of  tenderness,  came  away. 

That  night,  while  the  storm  which  swept  the 
Atlantic  States  beat  against  the  window  panes 
and  moaned  mournfully  about  his  house,  Moses 
Herendean  sat  alone  by  his  fireside  in  the 
silent  room.  Mary's  message  had  reached 
him  and  there  was  little  more  to  wait  for  now. 

But  as  the  storm  outside  laid  low  alike  the 
tender  spring  flowers  and  the  strong,  stately 
trees  at  its  will,  so  the  bitter  blast  which  had 
scattered  the  flower  of  Eunice's  frail  life  bowed 
the  old  man's  head  and  shook  his  very  being ; 
and  once  more,  as  from  the  first,  the  ancient, 
primal  throe  of  fatherhood  went  up  in  the  cry  : 
"  Would  God  I  had  died  for  thee  !  " 


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ill  S  M    t 


1  ({    Will  il 


